^ 


yBRARF 

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UNIVERSITY 

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TRAILS  TO  TWO  MOONS 


A  full  half  minute  before  smoke  jetted  from  the  barrel ; 

the  bullet  struck  many  yards  too  short. 

Frontispiece.     See  page  13. 


TRAILS   TO    TWO 
MOONS 


BY 


ROBERT  WELLES  RITCHIE 


WITH  FKONTISPIECE  BY 

FRANK  SPRADLING 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  19S0, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company, 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  September,  1920 


NortoootJ  $ress 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Cushing  Co., 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TRAILS  TO  TWO  MOONS 


M629390 


TRAILS  TO  TWO  MOONS 

A  NOVEL  OF  THE  BIG  COUNTRY 

CHAPTER  I 

The  day  Old  Man  Ring,  the  sheepman  of 
Teapot  Creek,  rode  to  Two  Moons  with  news 
of  importance,  Original  Bill  Blunt,  inspector 
for  the  Stockmen's  Alliance,  fared  over  the 
illimitable  face  of  the  Big  Country  at  his  duty. 

His  duty  was  simple:  A  range  inspector 
protected  his  employers  from  theft.  This 
meant  anything  from  reading  a  burnt  brand 
on  a  yearling's  flank  to  matching  shot  by  shot, 
at  any  and  all  odds,  with  thieves.  A  dull  day 
was  one  wherein  the  inspector  convinced  some 
raw  nester  from  Missouri  that  every  fat  steer 
happening  to  pass  his  claim  was  not  meat  di- 
vinely sent  to  still  the  mouths  of  a  clamorous 
brood  in  his  ten-by-twelve  cabin.  It  was  a 
cardinal  day  which  saw  him  flat  behind  the 
belly  of  his  horse  stretched  head  to  ground 


4  Trails  to  Two  Moons 

—  and  with  hot  lead  whimpering  low,  while 
behind  the  cut  bank  of  yonder  coulee  picked 
marksmen  of  Zang  Whistler's  gang  were  coolly 
engaging  to  kill  while  their  comrades  ran  off 
the  stolen  stock. 

Original  Bill's  life  was  one  of  variety ;  it  was 
ebjullient  and  replete  with  unpremeditated 
climaxes.    Withal,  the  life  of  his  choosing. 

He  was  of  the  cattle  clan,  —  born  to  it  in  that 
day  when  every  youth  in  Texas  looked  forward 
to  riding  the  trail  with  the  longhorns,  just  as 
the  Gloucester  and  New  Bedford  boy  of  the 
heroic  age  of  sail  looked  through  schoolhouse 
windows  to  high  harbor  spars.  The  chivalry 
of  the  cattle  clan  had  been  bred  in  him  by  long 
hours  on  night  herd,  by  the  harrowing  moments 
of  stampede  in  a  thunderstorm,  the  rollicking 
fellowship  of  the  round-up. 

Puncher,  trail  boss,  outfit  boss  and  owner; 
all  four  grades  of  the  cattle  clan's  hierarchy 
had  he  passed ;  its  wild,  free  code  was  his  acco- 
lade. In  this  evil  day  when  barbed  wire  crept 
across  the  free  range  and  a  meaner  race  of 
sheep  herders  and  their  voracious  bands  was 
come  to  dispute  with  his  own  people  right  to 
what  had  always  been  theirs  by  preemption, 
Original  Bill  Blunt  took  his  place  on  the  cov- 


Trails  to  Two  Moons  5 

ering  line  of  the  Great  Retreat.  A  sense  of 
duty,  of  loyalty  to  the  order  that  was  passing, 
placed  him  there.  Certain  peculiar  qualifica- 
tions, such  as  a  watch-spring  movement  of 
hand  to  holster,  a  deadly  aim  and  courage  pass- 
ing ordinary  made  him  a  competent  inspector, 
—  the  most  competent  in  all  the  Big  Country. 
His  name  was  known  from  Platte  Crossing  to 
the  Musselshell. 

Of  smaller  stature  than  the  average  man, 
bowed  as  to  legs  through  a  life  on  horseback, 
Original's  arresting  feature  was  a  chest 
rounded  as  a  wine  tun  by  the  great  winds  he  'd 
ridden  against  and  the  wild,  free  life  of  the 
range.  Endurance  passing  ordinary  was 
spelled  by  this  torso.  His  head  was  small  by 
comparison,  thatched  heavily  with  coal  black 
hair.  A  smooth  face  was  all  broken  into  curi- 
ous sectors  by  innumerable  wind  wrinkles. 
Black  eyes  had  a  disconcertingly  steady  gaze. 

Original  rode  freely  but  with  an  occasional 
eye  to  the  ground  for  certain  tracings  and 
markings,  the  clay-stained  bottom  of  an  over- 
turned pebble,  a  stalk  of  Jimson  weed  still 
green  but  broken.  Unconsidered  trifles  such 
as  any  one  not  of  the  Big  Country  might  very 
well  fail  to  see,  but  telling  a  rounded  story  to 


6  Trails  to  Two  Moons 

the  trailer.  As  he  rode  he  crooned  to  himself 
—  and  to  Tige,  his  little  cutting  horse,  who 
was  always  an  appreciative  listener  —  a 
mournful  ballad  of  the  Black  Hills: 

For  cute  little  Two  Bears  or  Commanche  Bills ; 
They'll  lift  your  back  hair  in  them  dreary  Black 
Hills. 

He  sang  because  the  trail  was  plain,  because 
it  carried  to  him  intelligence  he  eagerly  sought 
and  there  was  every  chance  trouble  lay  ahead. 

So  he  descended  from  the  high  lands  round 
Bad  Water  and  came  into  the  valley  of  the 
Teapot,  a  rough  and  tumble  stream  dropping 
straight  down  from  the  Spout,  back  in  the 
Broken  Horns.  The  dim  trail  he  followed 
cut  through  some  rough  land,  over  a  ford  and 
up  the  tortuous  alleys  of  coulees  straight  for  a 
ranch  house  and  corral  set  on  the  edge  of  hay- 
fields.  Before  he  came  to  the  ranch  house 
Original  made  a  detour  up  a  broad  draw  and 
drew  rein  at  the  rough  poplar  bars  of  a  smaller 
corral,  —  an  inclosure  not  more  than  twenty 
feet  square  neatly  hidden  away  in  an  alder 
thicket.  Four  yearling  calves  in  the  corral 
eyed  him  askance,  shifting  restlessly  after  the 
silly  fashion  of  their  kind. 


Trails  to  Two  Moons  7 

The  horseman's  trained  eye  picked  out,  even 
at  a  distance,  burnt  hair  lines  on  their  flanks, 
crude  jobs  with  a  running  iron.  He  laughed 
shortly,  turned  his  horse  and  pushed  on  to  the 
log-built  ranch  house.  Dropping  carelessly 
from  the  saddle,  he  bridle-tied  Tige  to  the 
ground  and  walked  to  the  open  door.  A  girl 
answered  his  knock  on  the  slab  frame. 

Her  appearance  in  the  sun-washed  door- 
way, with  the  dark  interior  of  the  log  house 
for  a  background,  was  a  little  startling.  Start- 
ling because  of  the  vivid  white  and  gold  of  her, 
—  milk-white  the  full  arms  bared  almost  to 
shoulders;  milk-white,  with  a  carnation  stripe 
on  lips  and  morning  blush  on  cheeks,  her  face. 
And  above  the  brow  the  glow  and  glory  of 
pale  dandelion;  where  her  hair  dropped  in  a 
single  thick  braid  over  one  shoulder  it  reflected 
against  her  round  throat  the  color  of  mellow 
bellflowers.  Crisp,  like  those  golden  fruits, 
crisp  and  inviting  was  her  beauty.  Only  the 
eyes  repelled.  They  were  blue  and  cold  as 
deep  fiord  water,  sleepy  slow  in  glance,  inno- 
cent of  all  feminine  tricks  of  coquetry.  The 
brooding  fatalism  of  the  north  countries  lay 
behind  their  large  irises.  Yes,  and  something 
of  the  sultry  anger  of  a  spoiled  child. 


8  Trails  to  Two  Moons 

Original  swept  off  his  hat  and  stood  a  bit 
abashed  under  the  girl's  steady,  impersonal 
stare. 

"  Ole  Man  Ring  lives  here,  I  take  it,"  he 
began  tentatively.     She  curtly  nodded. 

"  Maybe  he 's  out  riding  round  some- 
wheres?  "  Original  ventured  after  a  moment's 
pause  in  which 'no  invitation  to  enter  —  car- 
dinal courtesy  of  the  Big  Country  —  was  forth- 
coming. 

"  He  's  gone  to  Two  Moons,"  she  said.  She 
was  standing  with  arms  wide  and  hands  braced 
against  the  rough  frame  of  the  door.  The  sun- 
light cut  from  the  dark  background  a  silhou- 
ette of  her  figure,  all  blue-gingham  clad  and 
cinctured  loosely  at  the  waist.  A  figure  of 
lithe  strength,  more  masculine  than  suggestive 
of  womanly  softness,  albeit  gloriously  rounded. 
Her  pose,  blocking  the  doorway  and  with  com- 
petent arms  thrown  out,  emphasized  the  ab- 
sence of  welcome  in  her  eyes.  Original  read 
the  subtle  hint  of  challenge  in  both  pose  and 
eyes  and  was  piqued. 

"  My  name  is  Blunt  —  inspector  for  this 
range.  If  he  was  at  home  I  was  aiming  to  ask 
your  father  some  particular  questions,  Miss  — 
ah  —  Miss " 


Trails   to   Two   Moons  9 

11  My  father  don't  know  any  cowmen/' 
Hilma  Ring  answered  shortly. 

11  Never  too  late  to  get  acquainted,"  he 
smiled.  There  was  something  disarming  and 
ingenuous  in  Original's  smile  which  on  occa- 
sion had  carried  farther  than  a  .45  bullet,  but 
the  Norsk  stolidity  in  these  blue  eyes  blasted 
his  best  efforts. 

"  My  father  and  I  pick  and  choose  the  folks 
we  know."  Hilma  gave  the  insult  in  a  studied 
drawl;  her  chin  was  tilted  out  from  the  firm 
round  of  her  throat,  and  blue-black  eyes  looked 
out  from  beneath  lowered  lids  like  the  eyes  of 
a  panther  firming  herself  for  the  spring.  Orig- 
inal still  smiled,  but  with  the  lips  alone. 

"  Well,  you  picked  a  good  one  when  you 
chose  Zang  Whistler  of  Teapot  Spout,"  he  re- 
torted hardily.  "  He  's  one  of  the  politest  out- 
laws and  all-round  bad  men  we  have  in  our 
midst,  which  is  saying  something." 

Hilma  made  no  answer  save  through  her 
eyes,  which  flashed  like  feldspar  in  the  sun. 
She  took  a  backward  step  as  if  to  close  the  door 
in  the  visitor's  face. 

"  An'  I  take  it  I  did  n't  miss  meeting  Zang 
Whistler  right  here  in  your  dooryard  by  a  very 
long  time,"  Original  pursued  with  studied  cold- 


io        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

ness.  "  Those  yearlin'  calves,  now,  they  've  still 
got  the  lather  on  'em  from  hard  runnin'." 

This  roused  her.  What  knowledge  was  this 
stranger  advertising  by  veiled  hints?  The  prick 
of  danger  loosed  her  tongue: 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about  — 
Zang  Whistler  —  calves.  If  you  have  any 
questions  to  ask  I  can  answer  them  as  well  as 
my  father." 

Just  a  flicker  of  triumph  about  Original's 
mouth.  He  plumped  his  challenge  at  her  be- 
fore she  could  recover  the  vantage  of  silence: 

"  Zang  Whistler  rode  up  here  not  more  'n 
an  hour  ago,  driving  a  bunch  of  four  yearlin' 
calves.  The  calves  are  wearing  a  skillet-of- 
snakes  brand  over  their  rightful  S  O  Bar, 
which  is  so  new  you  can  smell  the  burnt  hide. 
After  Zang  penned  those  burnt  calves  in  that 
tidy  little  corral  you  have  down  in  the  draw  — 
you  directing  him  from  the  back  of  a  smallish 
horse  with  one  skelped  hoof  —  you  and  him 
rode  up  to  the  house,  and  Zang  sat  his  horse 
right  here,"  Original  pointed  to  three  tiny 
damp  spots  on  the  dooryard's  hardened  'dobe, 
"  while  you  gave  him  a  goord  of  water.  Then 
he  rode  off  yonder  to  Teapot  Spout  to  join 
his  merry  companions." 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        1 1 

Hilma  had  unconsciously  lifted  one  hand 
away  from  the  door  frame  to  bring  its  fingers 
playing  about  her  lips  while  Original  delivered 
this  smooth  flow  of  magic.  Now  she  burst 
forth  in  hot  anger: 

"  I  always  heard  you  cow  inspectors  were 
crawling  Indians,  dodging  and  twisting  in  the 
grass  to  spy  on  folks.  If  you  saw  all  this  why 
didn't  you  come  right  out  and  talk  about  it 
then?  Afraid  of  Zang  Whistler's  gun?  "  This 
last  shot  with  a  wintry  smile. 

"  Got  me  wrong,  Miss  Corntossel,"  he  teased, 
no  spite,  but  a  secret  attempt  at  provocation 
registering  in  his  voice.  "  I  saw  all  this,  as  you 
say,  on  the  ground.  Tracks  tell  no  lies.  Zang 
Whistler  rides  a  horse  with  one  notched  hoof; 
he  's  fair  in  love  with  that  little  horse  and  won't 
give  him  up,  howbe  it  leaves  a  wide  trail  every- 
where. A  calf  with  a  healing  brand  limps  on 
the  leg  he  's  favoring ;  that 's  easy  to  see  in  any 
middlin'  soft  ground.  Anyway,  I  mostly  find 
cattle  with  sore  brands  clustering  round  the 
tracks  Zang  Whistler's  horse  makes.  It 's  a 
funny  habit  they  have/' 

She  stood  irresolute  for  the  space  of  two 
breaths  looking  up  to  the  smiling  eyes  under 
the  shadowing  hat  brim.    Then  without  hurry 


1 2        Trails   to    Two    Moons 

she  stepped  back  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door.  Original  heard  a  bar  sliding  into  place 
behind  the  heavy  slabs.  He  gazed  at  the  shut 
door  with  mingled  amusement  and  chagrin; 
the  situation  had  not  been  at  all  distasteful 
despite  the  girl's  churlishness.  That  he  set 
down  as  but  of  a  part  with  the  bad  manners 
of  the  sheep  people.  But  the  chill  glory  of  her 
face  upon  which  the  heavy  rope  of  hair  cast  a 
reflected  golden  sheen!  Girls  with  looks  like 
that  were  scarce  upon  the  range. 

Tige  turned  to  the  pressure  of  a  knee  and 
trotted  down  to  the  scars  of  the  creek  bank 
behind  the  ranch  house  through  which  the 
questing  trail  had  led.  This  track  Original 
pursued  up  the  secret  draw  to  the  hidden 
corral  where  the  stolen  yearlings  were  penned. 
He  dropped  the  bars  and  rode  in  among  them. 

"Hi!  Yip  — yip!"  The  calves  milled 
about  the  pen  foolishly,  then  plunged  out 
through  the  opening;  wise  little  Tige  nosed 
and  nudged  them  into  a  close  core  of  galloping 
flesh.  Down  the  draw  and  on  to  where  the 
Teapot  spread  its  waters  wide  for  a  ford  Orig- 
inal drove  the  bunch. 

A  clean,  sharp  crack  sounded  from  over 
where  the  cliff  of  the  coulee  lifted  above  the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        13 

scars  of  winter  freshets.  A  puff  of  dust  kicked 
up  twenty  feet  or  more  ahead  of  the  foremost 
calf.  Original  whipped  his  eyes  to  the  right. 
He  saw  the  clean,  chiseled  shape  of  the  girl  he 
had  just  left  against  the  raw  blue  of  the  sky  on 
the  brink  of  the  gorge  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  away.  She  was  mounted  on  a  scrubby 
horse.  Even  as  he  looked  she  raised  her  rifle 
again  and  covered  him.  A  full  half  minute 
before  smoke  jetted  from  the  barrel;  the  bullet 
struck  many  yards  too  short. 

Just  as  the  first  calf  plunged  into  the  shal- 
lows of  the  ford  Original  turned  in  his  saddle 
and  with  elaborate  gesture  of  politeness  lifted 
his  hat.  He  made  a  sweeping  bow  which  car- 
ried him  low  over  his  saddle  horn.  Then  he 
suddenly  reined  Tige  to  his  haunches,  whirled 
him  about  to  face  the  distant  figure  on  the 
coulee  bank  and  held  him  steady.  Horse  and 
rider  presented  a  fair,  wide  mark. 

Original  saw  the  girl  drop  the  rifle  down  to 
her  side,  eject  the  empty  shell,  then  slowly  lift 
the  shining  lance  of  light  once  more  to  her 
shoulder.  Her  vivid  golden  head  tipped  as 
she  laid  her  eye  along  the  sights.  He  sat  move- 
less, smiling,  curiously  stirred  by  the  deliberate 
workings  of  a  murder  impulse.     It  flashed 


14       Trails   to   Two   Moons 

upon  him  that  the  girl  behind  that  rifle  was 
different  from  any  girl  he  had  ever  met.  She 
was  a  regular  stinger  —  that  is  what  she  was 
—  a  stinger. 

Just  as  light  struck  from  the  far-away 
barrel  lanced  itself  fair  in  the  man's  eyes  the 
trigger  was  pressed.  High  over  his  head  the 
bullet  sang.  Once  more  Original  swept  his 
hat  in  a  mocking  arc,  then  turned  and  dashed 
across  the  ford  to  round  the  scattering  year- 
lings into  a  traveling  unit.  He  did  not  even 
look  back.  No  more  shots  came.  But  as  he 
rode  the  range  inspector  chuckled  deep  down 
in  his  throat. 

"Bluffed,  by  criminy  —  bluffed!  Original, 
boy,  I  reckon  the  pot 's  yours." 

For  Original  Bill  Blunt  knew  that  even  poor 
shooting  could  not  excuse  that  last  shot  so  far 
over  his  head.  A  hand  had  elevated  the  rifle 
barrel  at  the  last  saving  quarter  second. 


CHAPTER   II 

A  saddle-colored  horse,  dust  streaked  and 
weary,  topped  the  long  rise  of  the  Poison 
Spider  Divide  and,  willing  enough  to  obey  the 
slight  tug  at  bridle,  shambled  to  a  halt  on  the 
crest.  The  rider,  a  shrunken  figure  in  overall 
blue  under  a  flapping  black  hat,  straightened 
a  bit  in  his  seat  and  looked  down  on  the  town 
of  Two  Moons  in  the  hill  pocket.  Always  in 
the  Big  Country  there  is  this  pleasurable  prick 
of  surprise  when  the  last  billowing  divide  of  an 
interminable  succession  falls  below  horse's 
hoofs  to  reveal  destination.  After  thirty  miles 
of  desolation  —  ranked  buttes  like  organ  pipes 
shooting  into  the  blue;  bald  mesas;  leprous 
waves  of  alkali  hills  —  first  sight  of  town 
crashes  on  the  dulled  senses  like  smitten  iron. 

Shabby,  both  horse  and  rider.  No  pride  of 
the  sleek-limbed  cutting  horse,  aristocrat  of  the 
cow  outfit's  remuda,  showed  in  the  beast's 
slack  neck  and  limp  ears;  in  his  dull  eye  no 
spark  of  deviltry  awaiting  opportunity  to  flare 


1 6        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

into  open  revolt.  Christian  —  for  that  was  his 
name  —  was  earth-born  in  a  land  where  the 
horse  is  long.  The  man  who  rode  him  was 
plebeian,  loutish  even  in  the  careless  sag  of 
his  overalls  tucked  into  square-toed  boots,  the 
hump  of  his  collar  high  round  his  ears.  His 
wizened  face  was  all  fallen  into  hollows  and 
crevasses  beneath  protuberant  cheek  bones  and 
outstanding  ears ;  skin  above  the  scraggy  gray 
beard  baked  a  pipestone  red;  blue  eyes  which 
never  cleansed  themselves  of  dazedness.  His 
features  seemed  to  be  set  in  a  perpetual  sub- 
strata of  frost. 

This  was  Old  Man  Ring,  the  sheepman  of 
Teapot  Creek  come  to  Two  Moons  to  tell  the 
sheriff  of  Broken  Horn  something  important. 

Never  before  in  his  drab  life  of  grubbing 
had  Old  Man  Ring  anything  important  to 
tell  anybody.  Never,  even,  had  he  been  im- 
portant in  himself  except  in  a  limited  way  and 
that  a  bread-winning  way  —  a  hard-necessity 
way.  The  Big  Country  round  about  distin- 
guished him  above  his  fellow  sheepmen  only 
because  he  was  the  father  of  Hilma  Ring.  And 
Hilma  Ring  was  counted  a  peach  —  a  loo-loo. 

"You,  Christian!"  Old  Man  Ring  laid 
blame  for  the  halt  on  his  horse  and  querulously 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        17 

jerked  at  the  bit.  Christian  sighed  and  took 
the  down  grade  at  what  long  years  of  service 
had  established  as  a  courtesy  trot.  They  drew 
nigh  the  Thirst  Cutter  Saloon,  outpost  of 
Two  Moons'  convivial  welcome.  Old  Man 
Ring  turned  yearningly  in  his  saddle  and 
caught  a  whiff  of  ardent  spirits  wafted  out 
from  swinging  screen  doors.  But,  no;  he 
had  something  important  to  tell  the  sheriff  of 
Broken  Horn.  "You,  Christian!"  Again  a 
yank  at  the  bridle.    Main  Street  received  them. 

In  those  days  before  the  railroad  Two  Moons 
was  a  scrawny  town  even  in  the  full  flush  of 
its  boom.  Seat  of  the  new  county  of  Broken 
Horn,  but  recently  cut  out  of  the  anarchy  of 
No  Man's  Land  and  not  yet  smoothly  geared 
to  the  machinery  of  law,  Two  Moons  was  scarce 
two  decades  beyond  that  dim  historic  time  when 
its  site  was  that  of  an  Indian  massacre.  Just 
a  plot  of  buffalo  grass  where  the  Poison  Spider 
and  Prairie  Dog  converge. 

When  Pack  Saddle  Owens  hauled  logs  down 
from  Piney  Canon  and  built  his  general  store 
Till  Driscoll  was  trail  boss  of  the  pioneer  herds 
of  longhorns  up  from  Texas.  Till  stocked  his 
outfits  from  Pack  Saddle's  store,  and  another 
store  sprang  up,  and  another.     So  came  Two 


1 8        Trails   to    Two    Moons 

Moons  —  a  cattlemen's  town  —  to  squat  down 
in  the  hill  pocket  in  the  heart  of  the  Big  Coun- 
try; the  saw-tooth  range  of  the  Broken  Horns 
behind,  and  before  it  more  square  miles  of  fat 
range  land  than  a  man  dared  reckon  by  hun- 
dreds. 

A  cattlemen's  town  it  remained  as  long  as 
freight  wagons  had  to  haul  one  hundred  and 
seventy  miles  up  from  the  nearest  reach  of  the 
Union  Pacific  —  as  long  as  the  bunch  grass 
grew  fat  and  no  man  stretched  wire  between 
Denver  and  the  Dominion  Line.  But  a  new 
railroad  rocketed  down  in  a  north-and-south 
slash  through  the  wilderness,  and  freight  wag- 
ons had  to  haul  only  forty  miles.  A  stage  ap- 
peared.    Two  Moons  began  to  change. 

A  government  land  office  opened  on  Main 
Street.  Then,  as  flies  to  the  honey  pot,  came 
straddling  and  stumbling  across  the  bad  lands, 
first  the  unlovely  hordes  of  the  homesteaders, 
"  nesters  ",  in  the  vernacular  of  the  cattle  clan; 
then  the  sheepmen  with  their  devastating  flocks 
to  contest  the  range,  which  the  nesters  did  not 
fence,  with  the  cattlemen,  who  abominated 
sheep  a  little  more  than  they  did  barbed  wire. 
There  was  an  upheaval  in  the  town's  social  life. 
Where  one  saloon  had  served  the  boys  in  from 


Trails   to    Two    Moons        19 

the  fall  round-up,  five,  six  —  a  dozen  must 
needs  mushroom  along  Main  Street.  And  in 
the  saloon,  as  nowhere  else,  caste  lines  were 
laid  down  in  increasing  bitterness.  The  Capi- 
tol, over  whose  bar  Till  Driscoll's  2800-pound 
steer  spread  his  six-foot  span  of  horns  as  a  sign 
for  the  faithful,  was  exclusively  the  drinking 
place  of  the  cattle  clan ;  a  sheep  herder  put  his 
foot  on  dynamite  when  he  eased  it  against  the 
Capitol's  rail.  By  the  same  code  a  cow- 
puncher  never  visited  the  Granger  or  the 
Homesteader  unless  his  credit  at  the  Capitol 
was  utterly  depleted ;  then  he  gave  his  patron- 
age to  the  pariah  barkeepers  with  an  air  of 
condescension. 

Main  Street,  as  Old  Man  Ring  saw  it  this 
day  of  his  coming  to  town,  was  a  block  wide 
and  four  long.  False  fronts  of  tin  and  wood 
reared  themselves  gawkishly  over  one  and 
two-story  pine  stores.  Here  and  there  a  lot 
given  over  to  tumbleweed  gaped  like  a  missing 
tooth.  To  right  and  left  of  Main  Street  houses 
of  the  townspeople  —  for  the  most  part  tar- 
papered  boxes  extravagantly  painted  in  ocher 
and  blues  —  trailed  down  to  hide  among  the 
cottonwoods  along  the  banks  of  the  streams, 
where  some  Crow  families  had  their  tepees. 


20        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Dominating  the  whole  clutter  of  Two  Moons 
was  the  new  courthouse  and  jail  at  the  far  end 
of  Main  Street,  a  prideful  extravagance  of 
brick  hauled  at  untold  dollars  of  tax  money 
by  freight  wagons  from  Lost  Soldiers,  on  the 
railroad. 

Old  Man  Ring  jogged  down  Main  Street 
straight  to  the  courthouse.  Tying  Christian 
to  the  horse  rail,  he  entered  and  blundered  his 
way  to  the  door  marked  Sheriff.  Within  the 
bearer  of  tidings  found  Sheriff  Red  Agnew, 
a  Viking  with  a  flaming  beard  cascading  down 
to  the  charm  on  his  watch  chain ;  a  man  of  fear- 
some mien,  whose  eye  seemed  constantly 
searching  the  waistcoat  of  a  quondam  visitor 
to  select  the  tidiest  place  to  put  a  bullet.  Red 
Agnew  had  been  elected  to  the  shrievalty  of 
Broken  Horn  largely  on  his  looks;  he  seemed 
designed  of  nature  to  be  a  sheriff.  Moreover, 
he  was  the  sheepmen's  candidate;  sheep  money 
had  financed  his  campaign,  the  cattle  clan  said. 

Without  preliminaries  Old  Man  Ring 
launched  into  the  mission  which  had  brought 
him  thirty  miles  from  his  home  ranch  on  Tea- 
pot Creek.  He  spoke  with  a  burring  of  the 
gutturals  which  thirty  years  away  from  his 
native  Denmark  had  not  sufficed  to  erase: 


Trails   to    Two   Moons        2 1 

11  Jed  Monk  on  Teapot  five  miles  below  my 
place  is  murdered.    The  Killer,  he  does  it." 

Bang!  Sheriff  Agnew's  heels  slid  from  desk 
edge  to  floor.  His  huge  body  straightened  it- 
self alertly.     "Murder!"  he  echoed. 

"  Yes,  murdered,"  Old  Man  Ring  placidly 
repeated.  His  frost-bound  features  changed  by 
not  so  much  as  a  wrinkle.  He  was  standing  on 
one  foot  like  a  tired  horse ;  the  toe  of  the  free 
boot  kicked  languidly  against  the  heel  of  the 
other.  "  It  is  the  Killer  does  it  because  I  saw 
him." 

"Where  —  when?"  the  Sheriff  snapped. 

"  Last  night  'bout  sundown  when  I  ride  by 
Bad  Water  Breaks.  I  look  for  that  white- 
faced  mulley  cow  of  mine  which  makes  always 
to  go  by  her  calf  down  in  Jed  Monk's  corral 
which  I  sold  to  him.  I  hear  a  leetle  shot  — 
bim !  —  away  off  near  Jed  Monk's  house,  and 
I  ride  there.  Sol  am  going  through  the  breaks 
—  'nother  leetle  shot  —  bim !  —  this  time  leetle 
closer.  I  cut  across  Bad  Water  Breaks  in  a 
hurry  and  soh "  Old  Man  Ring  inter- 
rupted his  narrative  to  rummage  for  a  ban- 
danna and  blow  his  nose.  He  was  calm  as  a 
graveyard  monument. 

"So  when  I  come  to  the  road  I  see  a  man 


22        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

there  on  a  black  horse.  He  sees  me  and  he 
turns  right  away  over  the  top  of  that  leetle  hill. 
But  I  know  him.    Before,  in  this  town,  I  have 

seen  him.    His  name  is "  he  bent  toward 

Agnew's  ear  and  whispered  a  name.  The 
sheriff's  eyes  narrowed  and  a  fold  of  skin 
ridged  the  cleft  above  his  nose. 

"  Then  I  find  Jed  Monk  there  in  the  road 
'bout  half  mile  from  his  house.  Two  bullets; 
one  through  his  head,  one  by  the  third  button 
of  his  shirt.    And  on  his  head " 

"  Same  mark  as  the  others?  "  Sheriff  Agnew 
put  in  quickly. 

"  On  his  head,  where  it  lies  a  leetle  by  the 
side,  is  a  stone  'bout  as  big  as  this,"  Old  Man 
Ring  marked  off  his  thumb  with  fingers 
clamped  below  the  first  joint,  "  'bout  as  big  as 
this,  that  stone  lying  there  on  his  head." 

"  The  stone  on  the  head  —  yes,  the  stone  on 
the  head,"  muttered  Agnew.  "  And  you  saw 
him  —  you  got  a  good  look  at  him,  so  's  you 
could  go  before  a  grand  jury  and  swear  to  the 
name  of  the  Killer?  " 

"  By  dam,  I  saw  him  gude!  "  The  withered 
sheepman  was  roused  to  his  first  enthusiasm 
by  the  prospect  of  playing  center  stage;  of 
appearing  before  that  mysterious  body  called 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        23 

the  grand  jury  and  swearing  a  man's  neck  into 
a  noose. 

"  Come  over  to  Strayman's  office  and  tell 
him  what  you  Ve  told  me,"  the  Sheriff  com- 
manded. He  heaved  himself  up  from  his  chair 
and  led  the  way  down  a  corridor  to  the  office 
of  District  Attorney  Strayman.  To  the  prose- 
cutor Old  Man  Ring  repeated  this  tale  of  a 
murder  almost  in  identical  words.  Orpheus 
C.  Strayman,  a  little  man,  all  fuss  and  fury, 
cracked  three  knuckles  in  quick  succession  at 
the  news  Ring  had  brought  in  from  Teapot. 

"  Got  him,  Agnew! "  he  exploded.  "  Same 
man  —  five  murders  —  stone  on  the  head  of 
each  victim.  Got  him  cinched!  I  '11  call  a 
grand  jury " 

"  Can  you  get  a  grand  jury  that  is  right?  " 
the  Sheriff  interrupted.  Like  him,  the  prose- 
cutor was  by  a  narrow  squeak  the  successful 
candidate  of  the  new  element  come  to  Broken 
Horn  County  to  oppose  the  barony  of  the  cat- 
tle clan.  In  answer  Strayman  gravely  lowered 
one  eyelid. 

"  That 's  up  to  you,  Agnew."  Then  as  his 
nimble  mind  leaped  ahead  to  grapple  with  fu- 
ture contingencies:  "There'll  be  a  fight, 
Sheriff,  a  devil  of  a  fight!     This  Killer,  he  's 


2\       Trails   to   Two    Moons 

working  for  the  cow  interests  and  I  can  prove 
it.  Why  does  he  mark  the  head  of  each  man 
he  kills  with  a  stone?  Just  to  show  the  peo- 
ple paying  him  he  's  earning  his  money,  by 
God! 

"  Run  down  the  list.  Old  Hard  Winter 
Peters,  who  ran  his  sheep  over  on  south  prong 
of  Beaver;  he  homesteaded  on  the  only  water 
hole  in  twenty  miles.  First  to  go,  with  a  quartz 
pebble  laid  between  his  eyes.  Jay  North  up 
in  Rainhole;  the  K  Cross  outfit  claimed  he 
was  branding  their  mavericks  and  there  was 
hot  talk  between  them.  Number  Two  for 
North !  I  tell  you,  we  got  to  make  an  example 
in  the  courts  —  got  to  make  an  example,  or 
the  cattlemen  '11  have  every  homesteader  and 
sheepman  from  here  to  No  Wood  throwing  up 
their  hands  and  dusting  back  East." 

Strayman  had  worked  himself  into  a  fearful 
passion ;  his  cowlick  was  roached  up  like  a  fight- 
ing rooster's  crest,  and  his  eyes  were  beady. 
The  less  emotional  Agnew  turned  to  Ring: 

"  Told  anybody  what  you  know  —  this  mur- 
der business? " 

"  I  tell  my  girl  Hilma.  She  knows  every- 
thing I  know,"  the  informer  from  Teapot  an- 
swered defensively  as  if  he  expected  his  testi- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        25 

mony  might  somehow  be  invalidated  by  this 
indiscretion. 

"  All  right,  keep  your  mouth  shut,"  the 
Sheriff  warned.  "We  don't  want  every  cow- 
puncher  in  town  to  know  what  we  got  up  our 
sleeve.  Now,  Strayman,  when  11  you  want 
this  man  to  testify? " 

"Um —  let  me  see.  This  is  Tuesday;  be 
here  in  my  office  at  nine  o'clock  Friday  morn- 
ing, Ring.  And  remember  what  the  Sheriff 
says :  Not  a  word  to  anybody  —  not  even  to 
yourself.     Friday  —  yes,  Friday  —  so  long!  " 

Old  Man  Ring  went  blinking  out  into  the 
sun.  He  rode  Christian  down  to  the  Fashion 
Stables  and  there  arranged  for  the  beast's 
board  overnight.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted 
Christian,  approved  his  master's  decision  to 
remain  in  Two  Moons  until  the  following  day ; 
even  though  the  drab  little  horse  could  not 
"  see  some  of  the  boys  ",  the  near  presence  of  a 
fiery  bronco  who  kicked  his  stall  to  flinders 
during  the  night  gave  Christian  the  feeling 
he  was  enjoying  metropolitan  life. 

As  for  Old  Man  Ring,  after  he  had  stoked 
to  repletion  at  the  Rhinoceros  Eating  House 
he  ambled  over  to  the  Homesteaders  and  had 
a  drink.     At  the  Granger  he  had  another. 


26        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Also,  he  met  friends.  It  was  the  sunset  hour 
and  all  Main  Street  was  blocked  into  indigo 
and  pale  lemon  by  fardels  of  waning  light 
flung  down  from  the  crest  of  the  Broken 
Horns.    An  hour  for  confidences. 

"  I  was  yust  riding  by  the  Bad  Water 
Breaks,"  Old  Man  Ring  was  saying,  back  to 
bar  and  arms  spread  along  the  rail  expansively, 
"  when  I  hear  a  leetle  shot  —  bim!  —  away  off 
near  Jed  Monk's  house " 

Quick  night  fell  and  along  the  black  channel 
of  Main  Street  splashes  of  light  sprayed  out 
from  saloon  doors.  Dark  shapes  of  men  waded 
through  these  fountains  of  light.  Men  met 
and  one  said  to  another:  "Have  you  heard 
about  it?  Ye-ah,  another  murder.  Cm  on 
over  to  the  Cloud's  Rest  and  listen  to  Old  Man 
Ring  tell  about  it.    He  knows  who  done  it." 

"  Soh  I  find  Jed  Monk  like  I  tell  you,"  Old 
Man  Ring,  firm  as  a  jack  pine  upon  his  feet 
and  with  the  liquor  in  him  showing  only  by  an 
increased  dazedness  in  his  eyes,  was  repeating 
for  the  twentieth  time.  Something  of  an  ora- 
torical quality  had  come  into  his  voice.  "  And 
on  his  head,  where  it  lies  a  leetle  on  the  side, 
there  is  a  stone  'bout  as  big  as  this " 

Two  Moons,  alive,  stirred  by  the  tale  of 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        27 

another  murder  done,  found  itself  restless  un- 
der vague  premonition.  A  spirit  of  portent, 
raw  and  rough  as  the  temper  of  the  Big  Coun- 
try round  about,  rode  the  night  wind.  Along 
the  black  spine  of  the  Broken  Horns  fluttered 
the  brooding  fires  of  heat  lightning. 


CHAPTER   III 

Hilma  Ring  was  not  emotional.  The  petty 
reflexes  of  thought  and  action  that  come  to 
women  of  finer  fiber,  of  more  pampered  lives 

—  to  your  idle  beauty  of  the  flowered  boudoir 

—  were  unknown  to  her.  Impulse  and  emo- 
tion were  with  her  primitive,  direct,  unaffected 
by  any  reaction  of  sensitive  nerves.  The 
springs  of  her  life  were  elemental  as  that  secret 
force  which  each  year  covers  the  face  of  the 
Big  Country  with  lusty  verdure.  When,  after 
that  last  shot  and  that  derisive  farewell  by  the 
one  coolly  daring  it,  Hilma  turned  to  ride  back 
to  her  house  she  was  conscious  of  but  a  single 
response  to  the  events  of  the  past  few  moments, 
cold  anger.  Anger  at  the  impudent  stranger 
who  had  driven  off  the  yearlings  in  the  face  of 
her  fire;  anger  more  particularly  at  herself. 
Why  had  her  hand  tipped  up  the  head  on  the 
barrel's  end  that  instant  her  finger  pulled  the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        29 

trigger?  Why,  when  she  had  every  intention 
of  shooting  to  kill  when  the  smiling  face  of 
that  cowman  looked  at  her  between  the  prongs 
of  the  buckhorn  —  why  had  she  let  him  live? 
Hilma  did  not  find  an  answer  to  this  question. 
Her  anger  but  fed  itself  on  answer  denied. 

She  rode  her  sorry  pony  into  the  corral,  un- 
saddled him  and  threw  him  an  armful  of  hay, 
for  the  beast  was  her  sole  companion  in  much 
lonesomeness  and  there  was  love  between  them. 
Then  she  carried  her  rifle  to  the  doorstep  and, 
sitting  there,  fired  many  shots  at  the  rusty  butt 
of  a  tomato  can  a  hundred  paces  away.  Every 
shot  missed  and  at  each  miss  her  anger  in- 
creased—  that  curious  double  anger  linking 
the  smiling  stranger  and  her  own  self  for  its 
object.  Hilma  only  stopped  her  savage  prac- 
tice shooting  when  the  growing  clutter  of 
empty  shells  at  her  feet  suddenly  aroused  her 
to  the  waste.  Rifle  cartridges  cost  money ;  her 
father  would  fly  into  one  of  his  rages  when  he 
discovered  what  she  had  done.  Then  they 
would  quarrel;  perhaps  he  would  strike  her, 
as  he  sometimes  did,  and  she  would  strike  back. 
All  that  would  not  be  worth  while. 

Hilma  carefully  cleaned  the  rifle,  reloaded 
the  chamber;  then  gathered  the  empty  shells 


30        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

into  her  apron  and  carried  them  far  away  from 
the  house  to  spill  them  down  the  steep  gorge 
of  the  coulee.  She  returned  to  her  lonesome- 
ness, and  her  still-gnawing  anger. 

Lonesomeness  had  been  this  girl's  portion 
almost  since  she  could  remember.  There  had 
been  a  time  —  away  back  there  in  Minnesota 
—  when  there  was  a  mother ;  but  that  time  was 
all  in  the  dim  forgotten  land.  Almost  the  only 
fact  Hilma  remembered  about  her  mother  was 
that  she  was  American,  and  for  that  the  girl 
was  devoutly  thankful.  That  this  shadow  fig- 
ure of  child  memory  should  have  been  Ameri- 
can instead  of  Danish  had  always  been  to 
Hilma  a  sort  of  investiture  of  sainthood. 
Hilma  hated  the  Danish  blood  in  her;  she  re- 
membered how  children  had  called  her  "  Sco- 
wegian."  When  the  mother  went  —  Hilma 
was  six  then  —  the  lonesomeness  had  come. 
First  the  lonesomeness  of  the  scrubby  farm  in 
the  flat  lands  but  with  neighbors  so  near  one 
could  see  their  windmills.  Then  the  greater 
and  more  terrible  lonesomeness  of  this  vast 
country,  where  one  looked  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  Broken  Horns  across  and  across  to 
the  Black  Hills,  where  it  was  a  day's  ride  to  a 
neighbor's  house. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        31 

Four  years  now  this  lonesomeness  of  the 
wilderness  had  been  hers,  had  grown  to  be 
the  most  intimate  thing  in  life.  It  had  stamped 
an  indelible  mark  on  her  mind.  Hilma  Ring, 
at  nineteen,  lived  solely  within  herself.  She 
sought  sympathy,  communion  in  thought  and 
understanding  with  no  one.  Her  father  was 
the  only  person  who  came  near  invading  this 
hard  barrier  of  self-sufficiency.  Perhaps  she 
loved  him ;  Hilma  did  not  know.  More  often 
than  not  she  considered  him  merely  a  shrunken 
little  man  with  a  bad  temper  with  whom  she 
must  work  in  order  to  live.  His  Danish  burr 
of  speech  was  a  dull  irritation. 

So  it  was  into  the  selfish  sphere  of  this  nar- 
row life  that  the  smiling  and  impudent  stranger 
had  shot,  comet-like.  Reason  enough  for 
Hilma's  disliking  him.  But  because  he  had 
taunted  her  with  her  poor  shooting,  defied  her 
to  kill  him  if  she  could,  she  hated  him.  Be- 
cause, too,  he  was  of  the  cattle  clan  —  that 
caste  deeming  itself  superior  and  demanding 
for  itself  subservience  of  all  others  —  she  hated 
him.  Hated  him,  also,  because  he  had  run  off 
with  four  misbranded  yearlings  which  Zang 
Whistler  had  left  in  their  secret  corral  under 
a  working  agreement  with  her  father. 


32        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

The  day  wore  to  a  purple  and  carnelian 
close.  Hilma  sat  in  the  doorway  and  watched 
the  riot  of  the  sunset  play  all  along  the  saw 
edge  of  the  Broken  Horns  —  the  thin  blue 
rim  was  like  the  lip  of  a  volcano  confining 
fires  of  creation.  Billows  of  cathedral  light 
streamed  down  the  flanks  of  the  mountains  and 
out  over  the  great  range.  The  crystal  air  was 
a  lens  focusing  into  sharp  relief  dots  of  pines 
on  the  higher  ridges,  clumps  of  squatting  sage 
fringing  the  nearer  divides.  Heavens  paled 
from  rose  to  lemon  yellow  and  to  green. 

Against  this  eerie  light  the  figure  of  a 
horseman,  at  a  great  distance,  appeared  black 
as  charcoal. 

Just  this  figure  of  a  horseman  visible  for  a 
minute  against  the  sky  line,  then  disappearing. 
Hilma  saw  it;  she  watched  it  with  intentness 
until  it  was  swallowed  by  the  black  shadow  of 
a  butte.  Long  she  sat,  waiting  for  the  tiny 
silhouette  to  reappear.  The  dark  came,  but 
the  specter  of  the  afterglow  did  not  show  itself 
again.  The  girl  found  herself  idly  wondering 
about  it.  That  would  be  on  the  road  to  Two 
Moons  where  the  horseman  appeared,  —  on 
the  road  over  which  her  father  would  be  trav- 
eling homeward.  No  ranches  lay  over  there ;  no 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        33 

cow  outfits  were  located  between  Teapot  and 
town.    It  must  be  her  father,  returning. 

The  girl  cooked  supper  and  laid  out  two 
plates  on  the  oilcloth-covered  table.  Supper 
grew  cold ;  a  smell  of  stale  grease  and  cooling 
tea  filled  the  long  room.  The  clock  with  the 
picture  of  the  Minnesota  state  capitol  on  its 
pendulum  case  banged  out  ten.  Hilma  ate 
alone. 

When  she  had  dried  her  hands  of  steaming 
dishwater  she  went  out  to  the  dooryard  and 
stood  a  long  while  listening  for  the  sound  of 
hoofs.  A  coyote  somewhere  out  in  the  dark 
complained  dolefully  of  life's  bitterness,  but 
that  was  the  only  sound.  She  moved  round  the 
log  walls,  closing  and  bolting  with  stout  turn 
buttons  the  wooden  shutters  covering  each  of 
the  three  windows.  This  was  a  nightly  precau- 
tion of  hers;  just  why  she  did  it  Hilma  never 
knew.  Maybe  it  was  to  shut  out  the  great 
dark.  Then  she  reentered  the  house  and 
slipped  the  heavy  oaken  bar  into  place  behind 
the  door.  The  house  was  hers  to  possess  in 
lonesomeness. 

Mercifully  constricted  and  intimate  was  this 
oasis  of  lamplight  in  the  desert  of  the  night. 
Just  one  long  room,  twenty  feet  from  end  wall 


34        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

to  end  wall;  one  door  leading  to  the  lean-to 
kitchen;  another  through  the  thin  partition  of 
Hilma's  own  room ;  a  great  fireplace  of  stones 
and  mud  bisecting  the  rear  wall.  The  furnish- 
ings were  Spartan :  A  heavy  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor;  three  homemade  chairs  with  raw- 
hide bottoms;  a  squatty  trunk  of  blue  glazed 
zinc  and  chipped  lacquer;  on  the  walls  four 
colored  lithographs  from  which  the  advertis- 
ing matter  had  been  cut;  and  a  glassed-over 
print  of  a  Danish  king  and  queen,  —  the  king 
had  quaint  old-world  whiskers  and  his  royal 
spouse  wore  her  gown  in  early  Victorian  de- 
collette.  Nothing  more  to  look  at  than  this 
scant  inventory.  If  the  mind  of  one  alone  tired 
of  reviewing  this  slender  invitation  to  beguile- 
ment  there  was  a  huge  Bible  in  the  zinc  trunk 
and  a  pink  plush  album  of  atrocious  portraits. 
Also,  a  doll. 

The  lonesomeness  of  the  great  range  came 
to  sit  down  with  Hilma.  To-night  it  was  more 
poignant  than  usual.  The  girl's  imagination, 
never  obtrusive,  began  to  play  in  a  manner 
surprising  to  her,  and  it  centered  round  the 
silhouette  of  the  horseman  against  the  green 
sky.  Insensibly  her  thoughts  drifted  to  Jed 
Monk,  sheepman,  and  what  her  father  had 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        35 

journeyed  to  Two  Moons  to  tell  the  sheriff 
concerning  the  manner  of  Monk's  taking  off. 
The  stone  on  the  forehead,  —  she  could  see  it, 
could  see  the  unlovely  face  of  their  nearest 
neighbor  with  a  pebble  balanced  grotesquely 
just  above  one  lumpish  jaw  socket.  This  was 
very  unusual  and  not  a  little  disturbing. 
Hilma  laid  it  all  to  the  door  of  the  impudent 
range  inspector,  her  visitor  of  the  afternoon. 
As  she  phrased  it  aloud  —  and  Hilma  always 
talked  her  thoughts  when  she  was  alone  —  he 
had  started  her  thinking.  It  was  not  every- 
body who  could  start  Hilma  Ring  thinking. 

"Fool!"  she  chided  herself,  and  she  un- 
dressed and  rolled  herself  in  the  blankets  of 
her  bunk.  Sleep  would  not  come.  Instead  a 
brooding  formless  something,  which  might  have 
been  the  shape  of  fear  or  —  had  Hilma  known 
it  —  a  messenger  of  ill  from  the  Norse  god 
Frey,  took  substance  of  the  dark  about  her. 
She  shivered.    Hours  passed. 

A  noise  brought  her  bounding  to  her  feet 
by  the  bunk  side.  It  was  a  stuttering  whinny, 
and  it  came  from  the  direction  of  the  corral 
where  the  shabby  little  horse  was  penned. 
Hilma  stood  breathless  for  many  minutes,  then 
native  courage  pushed  through  her  panic.    She 


36        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

hurried  surely  through  the  dark  to  the  fire- 
place corner  where  the  rifle  stood,  seized  it  and 
threw  a  shell  into  the  chamber.  After  a  minute 
spent  with  ear  close  to  the  outer  door  *  she 
pushed  back  the  bar  and  let  the  heavy  slab 
door  swing  inward.  Rifle  ready,  Hilma  peered 
out. 

The  many-starred  night  told  nothing. 
Naught  there  but  the  dead  black  shoulders  of 
the  mountains,  deeper  shadows  below,  and  on 
high  a  spangled  vault  which  seemed  to  hum 
with  the  energy  of  its  myriad  lamps.  Hilma 
went  back  to  bed. 

Near  noon  next  day  Christian,  her  father's 
horse,  ambled  head  down  to  the  corral  bars  and 
there  stood,  resting  easily  on  three  legs  and 
patiently  waiting  to  be  uncinched.  The  saddle 
was  empty. 

Hilma  threw  herself  on  Christian's  back 
and  started  him  at  a  labored  gallop  down  the 
road  toward  Two  Moons.  Her  mood  was  not 
one  of  surprise  or  consternation ;  the  night  had 
left  her  expectant,  and  the  return  of  the  rider- 
less horse  was  but  part  of  fulfillment.  So  she 
rode,  eyes  scanning  the  hard  road  ahead  and 
the  little  swales  and  buffalo  wallows  on  either 
side. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        37 

She  had  journeyed  perhaps  ten  miles  when 
a  speck  on  the  thin  ribbon  of  dust  ahead  of  her 
slowly  took  shape  of  horse  and  rider.  As  she 
drew  near  she  recognized  the  tall,  gaunt  shape 
and  prophet's  beard  of  Uncle  Alf,  the  circuit 
rider  —  crazy  Uncle  Alf,  he  was  known  to  all 
the  Big  Country.  Something  bulky  cumbered 
the  saddle  before  him  and  dropped  to  either 
side  in  shapeless,  swaying  extremities.  Uncle 
Alf  recognized  her  when  she  was  still  a  distance 
away.  He  halted  his  horse  and  shot  one  skinny 
arm  high  above  his  head,  the  hand  wide  spread. 

"  The  murderer  rising  with  the  light  killeth, 
and  in  the  night  is  as  a  thief."  His  hail  came 
bellowing  in  deep  diapason,  —  a  voice  almost 
terrifying  in  volume.  The  circuit  rider's  eyes 
showed  white  under  his  flapping  hat  brim ;  the 
eyes  of  Jeremiah  they  were. 

"  I  heard  an  angel  flying  through  the  midst 
of  heaven,  saying  with  a  loud  voice,  Woe,  woe, 
woe  to  the  inhabiters  of  earth!"  Uncle  Alf 
swept  his  outstretched  arm  in  a  fearsome  ges- 
ture. 

Hilma  rode,  clear-eyed,  close  to  the  evan- 
gelist's side  and  looked  down  at  that  which  he 
carried  over  his  saddle  horn.  It  was  the  body 
of  her  father,  murdered. 


CHAPTER    IV 

Crazy  Uncle  Alf  was  one  of  God's  acci- 
dents, in  the  opinion  of  Big  Country  folks.  He 
was  deemed  a  bit  touched,  but  whether  by  mere 
mortal  infirmity  or  by  some  mysterious  power 
beyond  ken  no  man  dared  speculate.  They 
said  he  was  so  all-fired  uncertain.  Like  a 
sudden  bitter  wind  of  winter,  he  was  wont  to 
sweep  in  from  the  void  of  range  country,  blast 
souls  afraid  and  pass  on.  Now  he  would  be 
summoning  Two  Moons  sinners  to  repent- 
ance; overnight  he  had  quit  the  town  on  a 
borrowed  horse,  and  the  following  sunset 
would  see  him  calling  blessings  on  the  lonely 
ranch  house,  fifty  miles  away,  which  he  had 
chosen  to  harbor  and  refresh  him.  In  heat  and 
storm  Uncle  Alf  fared  over  the  face  of  the 
wilderness,  scourging  and  purging  souls  with 
the  whips  of  Pentateuch. 

The  spirit  of  the  wilderness  moved  him,  even 
as  the  holy  men  of  old.    Big  winds  down  from 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        39 

the  mountains  carried  the  voice  of  the  Al- 
mighty. Signs  and  portents  were  spread 
against  the  canopy  of  the  stars  for  his  rapt  eye. 
The  play  of  lightning  in  the  core  of  a  storm  an- 
swered his  cry  for  guidance  on  his  way.  The 
desert's  harshness  tinctured  the  evangelist's 
theology.  No  denomination  or  established 
dogma  bound  him;  his  ordination  had  come 
direct  from  God,  staying  his  hand  in  a  moment 
of  blood  lust  —  for  so  he  vaunted  his  conver- 
sion —  and  sending  him  on  a  mission  of  re- 
demption. Terrible  the  Mosaic  law  and  the 
exactions  of  Jehovah  in  Uncle  Alf 's  interpre- 
tation, and  terrible  his  exposition  of  them.  He 
could  survey  a  quarter  section  of  hell  in  a  way 
to  bring  the  most  hardened  backslider  crawling 
to  a  temporary  seat  on  the  mourners'  bench. 

A  weird,  unworldly  figure.  Taller  than 
most  tall  men;  gaunt  as  a  hound;  weathered 
features  all  sunken  into  swales  and  hummocks 
about  his  eyes  of  a  seer ;  uncut  hair  and  sweep 
of  snowy  beard  mingling  about  his  ears;  thin 
wrists  and  shanks  sprouting  like  cypress  roots 
from  the  vents  of  his  hand-me-down  garments. 
A  veritable  blasted  pine  of  a  man. 

There  was  something  in  the  evangelist's  eyes 
when  Hilma  rode  close  enough  to  see  his  saddle 


4-0        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

burden  which  showed  he  had  set  himself  for  a 
wild  outburst  of  grief.  None  came.  The  girl 
looked  down  at  the  pitiful  bundle;  her  hand 
strayed  out  to  touch  her  father's  head.  Dark 
lights  lay  deep  in  her  eyes  when  she  raised  them 
to  Uncle  Alf's. 

"  Where  did  you  find  him?  "  she  asked. 

"  By  the  roadside  just  t'other  side  of  Twenty 
Mile  Crick.    And  right  between  his  eyes " 

"  A  little  stone,"  Hilma  supplied.  "  A  lit- 
tle stone  —  yes,  I  knew."  She  turned  her 
horse  to  the  homeward  stretch. 

"  The  Killer!  "  Uncle  Alf  roared  in  his  dia- 
pason thunder.  "  That  son  of  Baal  who  kills 
for  the  cattlemen  and  marks  his  pride  in  blood 
with  a  stone.  He  lies  in  wait  like  the  thief  and 
the  spoiler,  and  his  hand  is  red  in  the  dawn." 

They  rode  a  distance  with  no  further  word 
between  them.  Hilma  was  looking  off  to  the 
mighty  battlements  of  the  mountains,  ward- 
ers over  her  great  lonesomeness,  —  now  with- 
out respite.  The  lanky  man  by  her  side  mut- 
tered in  his  beard.  She  spoke  her  thoughts 
aloud : 

"  He  shot  dad  because  dad  knew  who  he  was. 
Dad  rode  to  Two  Moons  to  tell  the  sheriff  he 
saw  the  Killer  shoot  Jed  Monk.    I  reckon  he 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       41 

—  the  Killer  —  knew  dad  'd  do  this  and  wanted 
to  put  him  out  of  the  way  before  he  could  tes- 
tify before  a  court  of  law." 

"'Thou  hast  not  hated  blood;  even  blood 
shall  pursue  thee/  "  growled  Uncle  Alf . 

"  I  knew  last  night  this  would  happen," 
Hilma  continued  in  a  flat  monotone.  "  I  saw 
him  against  the  sky  when  it  was  green  and  he 
was  black.  I  felt  him  moving  round  in  the 
dark.     Sol  knew  to-day  —  I  knew " 

"  It  was  the  voice  of  God  what  told  you  to 
come  searching  to-day,  daughter,"  the  man 
corrected.  "  Even  as  it  was  His  voice  come  to 
me  in  sleep  down  to  Henry  Withers'  place, 
saying,  '  Rise  up,  Alpheus ;  go  forth  in  the 
dawn  and  find  a  murdered  man,  that  ye  may 
comfort  the  fatherless  and  become  an  avenger 
of  blood.5  " 

That  phrase,  an  avenger  of  blood,  launched 
the  evangelist  upon  one  of  his  fanatical  flights, 
and  he  dinned  the  inexorable  law  of  an  eye  for 
an  eye.  The  girl,  riding  with  her  eyes  on  the 
mountains,  stole  an  occasional  glance  at  the 
ascetic  face  of  the  preacher;  his  steel-bright 
eyes  fascinated  her  even  as  the  swift  surge  of 
his  speech  stirred  a  deep  response  of  primitive 
passions.    For  Uncle  Alf  hurled  anathema  at 


42        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

the  whole  cattle  clan  —  branded  the  barons  of 
the  great  range  and  all  their  gentry  of  the  cow 
outfits  with  the  mark  of  bloodguiltiness.  He 
compared  the  dominant  caste  to  Pharaoh's 
hosts  and  made  the  small  settlers  a  people  in 
bondage,  awaiting  but  the  call  of  a  Moses. 
Uncle  Alf  visioned  himself  in  the  role  of  de- 
liverer. 

"  They  drive  my  people  from  the  water 
fords.  They  tromp  down  my  people's  lambs 
with  their  horned  cattle,  and  their  murderers 
lurk  in  the  hedges  to  destroy  the  innercent. 
Bear  witness,  oh  God!  They  think  this  here 
range  was  guv  to  them  by  You  exclusive,  like 
You  set  Adam  in  the  Garden.  Your  waters 
and  Your  flowin'  streams  belong  to  no  man 
but  them.  The  strong  grasses  nussed  by  Your 
sun  is  for  their  fat  steers  only.  But,  God,  I 
hearn  You  when  You  says  to  me  out  of  a  cloud, 
'  Alpheus,  rise  up  and  gird  up  your  loins.  Take 
the  rifle  in  your  hands,  Alpheus,'  says  You  to 
me,  '  and  call  your  people  together  with  rifles 
in  their  hands  to  rise  against  the  Egyptians 
and  confound  'em  —  lay  'em  low  and  utterly 
destroy  the  whole  stiff-necked  congregation ! ' 
The  white  head  was  tipped  far  back  to  bring 
the  beard  pointing  at  the  horizon  and  his  rapt 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       43 

eyes  were  fixed  on  the  blinding  sun.  Uncle 
Alf  shot  his  hands  aloft  in  a  gesture  of  invo- 
cation. 

"  All  right,  dear  God  A'mighty,  it  '11  be  my 
duty  an'  my  pleasure  to  follow  Your  directions 
'long  these  lines." 

So  fared  these  two  —  and  that  pitiful  third 
—  through  the  immensity  of  the  brown  and 
gold  desert,  under  aloof  heavens;  a  world  raw 
from  the  wheel  of  the  potter.  And  Hilma 
Ring  drank  deep  of  the  grim  doctrine  of  ven- 
geance. At  first  the  preacher's  exhortations 
stirred  her  only  by  the  sonorousness  of  word 
and  phrase;  his  mighty  voice  played  upon  her 
ear  as  something  potent  to  command.  Then 
insensibly  her  sluggishness  of  perception  — 
inheritance  from  the  Danish  blood  —  fell  away, 
and  her  mind  began  to  leap  and  tingle  to  the 
call  of  a  blood  reckoning.  All  her  dull  hatred 
of  the  cattle  clan,  hitherto  formless  and  with- 
out definite  inspiration,  was  coals  for  the  fiery 
prophet  to  breathe  upon.  She  saw  herself  be- 
reft of  a  father,  not  by  an  individual  but  by 
that  collective  monster  of  Uncle  Alf's  conjur- 
ing. Not  because  she  loved  her  father  —  for 
Hilma  could  not  be  sure  she  ever  had  —  but 
because  she  had  a  right  to  a  father  and  this 


44        Trails   to   Two    Moons 

right  had  been  invaded  by  the  cattle  clan,  did 
she  give  herself  to  the  other's  promptings  of 
bitter  recompense. 

Weightiest  thing  in  the  balance  of  the  girl's 
growing  wrath  was  that  they,  the  cattlemen, 
through  their  hired  agent  had  sealed  her  to  the 
bondage  of  the  great  lonesomeness  forever  and 
ever.  To  live  at  all  she  must  live  alone,  work 
the  sheep  band,  grub  for  dollars  to  buy  flour 
and  bacon.  Away  out  there  where  the  blank 
sky  bends  to  touch  vacant  wilderness,  where 
nothing  moves  except  at  the  stir  of  winds, 
where  silence  lies  like  a  deep  sea,  there 
must  she  live  —  alone.    Alone ! 

They  came  to  Hilma's  house  on  the  crest 
above  Teapot  and  laid  Old  Man  Ring  in  his 
bunk. 

"  When  shall  we  have  the  funeral?  "  Uncle 
Alf  asked  over  bacon  and  beans. 

"  Right  away,  while  you  're  still  here, 
Hilma  answered.  "  I  Ve  got  to  have  somebody 
round  to  help.  Now  that  Jed  Monk  's  dead  — 
he  was  our  only  neighbor  —  there  's  nobody 
nearer  than  Zang  Whistler  and  his  boys  over 
in  the  Spout.  I  reckon  it  won't  be  much  of  a 
funeral." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  found  the  effort  some- 


9* 


Trails   to    Two    Moons        45 

how  inept.  After  the  meal  Uncle  Alf  took 
hammer,  saw  and  nails  and  went  down  to  the 
shed  stable  to  rip  off  precious  boards  and  make 
a  coffin.  Hilma  donned  her  oldest  dress,  car- 
ried pick  and  shovel  to  a  flower-blown  knoll 
above  the  creek  and  there  chose  a  site  for  the 
grave.  She  was  bare-headed ;  her  sleeves  rolled 
up  to  the  shoulders  gave  the  dazzling  white- 
ness of  her  arms  to  the  sun.  Soon  the  sleazy 
dress  clung  to  her  back  with  a  sweat  of  toil, 
and  its  stretched  web  undulated  to  the  smooth 
play  of  muscles  from  shoulder  to  midback. 

Zang  Whistler  found  her  thus  at  labor  when 
he  rode  up.  He  had  been  skirting  the  crest  of 
the  opposite  divide,  two  miles  and  more  away, 
when  the  dazzle  of  sunlight  on  her  live  gold 
hair  arrested  his  eye,  so  he  crossed  the  Teapot 
to  make  talk.  Hilma  looked  up  at  the  sound 
of  hoofs ;  she  drew  one  arm  across  her  forehead 
to  wipe  damp  strands  of  hair  out  of  her  eyes. 
Zang  Whistler's  sweeping  bow  —  and  a  fetch- 
ing figure  of  a  horseman  he  was  —  was  an- 
swered by  a  grave  nod.  The  visitor's  careless 
masculine  grace  and  bold  features,  a  little 
raffish  and  devil-may-care,  carried  no  sex  chal- 
lenge to  Hilma.  She  counted  men,  especially 
youngish  men,  merely  as  a  variant  of  her  own 


46        Trails   to    Two   Moons 

species  —  queer  creatures  and  a  little  akin  to 
bull  calves  in  their  antics. 

"  Old  Man  Ring  got  you  working  for  him 
again?  "  Zang  hailed,  curbing  his  pony  near 
the  shallow  trench  wherein  the  girl  stood. 

"  Yes,"  Hilma  answered,  and  she  squared 
her  shoulders  for  another  pick  drive. 

"  What  you  digging  away  up  here  on  the 
hill  —  water  hole?"  the  man  quizzed  laugh- 
ingly. 

"  No ;  grave  —  his  grave."  The  reply  came 
shortly  and  with  the  sweep  of  the  pick  point 
down  to  shale.  Whistler  swung  from  the  sad- 
dle in  an  instant  and  reached  to  take  the  pick 
handle  from  her.  She  met  his  questioning 
eyes  with  a  curiously  objective  stare. 

"Ole  Man  Ring  dead?  What  — who  did 
it?" 

"  The  Killer,"  Hilma  answered  dully.  "  The 
Killer  got  him  when  he  was  coming  back  from 
Two  Moons.  Crazy  Uncle  Alf  's  over  yonder 
to  the  stable  now,  tinkering  up  something  to 
bury  him  in." 

Her  story  of  the  shooting  was  bald  and 
brief.  The  leader  of  the  Spout  gang  of  black- 
balled cow-punchers  and  outlaws  heard  her 
through  with  a  growing  pucker  of  wonder  in 


Trails   to    Two    Moons        47 

the  corners  of  his  eyes,  —  wonder  at  the  calm 
self-possession  of  this  radiant  girl. 

"  Well,"  he  ventured  when  she  had  finished, 
"  I  suppose  you  '11  be  closing  up  the  outfit  and 
moving  to  town." 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  got  to  stick  if  I  want  to 
live.  All  Dad  has  is  sunk  in  the  sheep.  I 
guess  I  got  to  live  in  a  sheep  wagon  now  or 
starve."  She  voiced  this  scope  of  her  future 
with  no  shading  of  protest  in  her  voice.  Zang 
eyed  her  still  more  curiously. 

"  Good  girl!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Give  me  that 
pick  and  you  go  'long  back  to  the  house." 

Hilma  yielded  the  pick  and  stepped  out  of 
the  trench.  She  sat  down,  drew  off  both  her 
heavy  shoes  and  shook  dirt  from  them.  Whis- 
tler stole  a  covert  glance  under  his  arm  at  the 
stockinged  ankles,  trim  and  shapely  for  all 
their  coarse  covering.  Hilma  saw  the  look, 
but  continued  unperturbed  to  brush  bits 
of  shale  from  her  stocking  soles.  She  pulled 
on  her  shoes  and  arose. 

"  A  fresh  inspector  was  here  yesterday  little 
while  after  you  left,"  she  said.  "  He  ran  off 
all  those  yearlin'  calves  of  yours  down  to  the 
corral  and  I  shot  at  him.  But  I  missed  him," 
—  this  admission  in  a  knife-edged  stab  of  bit- 


48        Trails   to    Two    Moons 

terness.  "  Name  's  Blunt  —  Bill  Blunt." 
Zang  poised  the  pick  over  his  head  and  whis- 
tled. 

"Blunt  —  Original  Bill,  eh?  You  say  you 
shot  at  him.  Lord-ee,  Miss  Hilma,  he  did  n't 
go  for  to  shoot  at  you,  now?  "  Hilma  shook  her 
head.  "  Sho!  I  hadn't  oughta  set  Original 
down  as  a  woman  shooter,  even  if  he  is  a  range 
inspector.  I  don't  mind  losing  four  yearlin's 
half  's  much  as  missing  a  chance  to  meet  up 
with  this  here  Original.  Him  and  me  are  go- 
ing to  get  into  a  mighty  tight  jack  pot  some 
day  where  we  gotta  shoot  it  out  between  us." 

"  You  '11  kill  him  then?  "  The  girl  popped 
the  question  abruptly;  a  note  of  eagerness 
would  not  be  denied.    The  outlaw  grinned. 

"  Why  're  you  so  mighty  p'tickler  'bout  this 
here  Original  Bill's  passin'  over?  "  he  drawled. 

"  Because  I  hate  him,"  Hilma  answered, 
and  she  turned  and  walked  to  the  house,  leav- 
ing the  man  to  finish  her  task. 

They  buried  Old  Man  Ring  at  sundown. 
Uncle  Alf  said  a  prayer  which  flamed  with  the 
wrath  of  Jeremiah  of  the  Captivity,  Zang 
Whistler  filled  the  grave,  and  that  was  an  end 
to  it.  The  three  returned  to  the  cabin.  Uncle 
Alf  saddled,  gave  Hilma  a  blessing  crackling 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       49 

with  prophetic  lightnings  and  rode  off  into  the 
purpling  dark.  Zang  Whistler,  reluctantly 
mounting,  rode  his  horse  to  the  doorway,  where 
Hilma  stood.  Wine  and  carnelian  light  from 
the  west  stained  her  cheek,  made  mysterious 
the  depths  of  blue  irises.  She  was  beautiful 
in  the  man's  eyes,  but  it  was  a  beauty  matching 
the  cold  white  chimney  of  Cloud's  Rest,  high- 
est watchtower  of  the  Broken  Horns.  He 
looked  down  at  her  and  was  seized  by  a  curious 
suffocation,  a  stoppage  of  blood  at  the  heart. 
Leaning  a  little  toward  her,  he  stretched  down 
his  hand.    Hilma  took  it. 

11  You  —  you  're  bound  to  be  mighty  lonely 
all  by  yourself  here,  Miss  Hilma,"  he  said 
huskily.     The  girl's  steady  eyes  read  him. 

"  Maybe  so,"  she  returned  with  a  touch  of 
ice  in  her  voice.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and 
stepped  back  into  the  door-frame.  "  Maybe 
so;  but  I  'm  going  to  learn  to  shoot." 

Zang  heard  the  heavy  door  creak  shut  and 
the  sliding  of  the  bar  behind  it. 


CHAPTER   V 

The  morning  after  she  had  buried  her  father 
Hilma  Ring  set  herself  to  a  conscientious  sur- 
vey of  the  debit  and  credit  aspect  of  her  future ; 
what  were  the  assets  and  what  the  liabilities  of 
Old  Man  Ring's  daughter,  left  fatherless  ?  She 
did  this  methodically  and  without  any  hin- 
drance of  emotion  or  grief  born  of  the  events  of 
yesterday.  Not  once  had  she  given  way  to 
tears  since  first  she  met  Uncle  Alf  riding  with 
her  father's  body  swung  across  his  saddle  horn. 
Tears  she  'd  not  known  since  the  day  her 
mother  died;  grief  there  could  not  be  where 
tragedy  had  not  trampled  on  love.  Instead, 
her  single  inspiration,  aside  from  the  dominant 
one  of  necessity,  was  a  vague,  formless  curi- 
osity: What  had  this  grubby  little  man  she  had 
lived  with  so  long  to  show  for  all  the  years  of 
bitter  isolation  in  the  Big  Country? 

So,  when  she  had  breakfasted  on  bacon  and 
coffee  and  washed  her  plate  and  skillet,  Hilma 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       51 

dragged  to  the  doorway  the  blue  glazed  zinc 
trunk  containing  the  Bible,  the  family  album 
and  her  doll  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  to 
investigate.  She  chose  the  doorway,  flooded 
in  sunshine  and  with  the  stupendous  panorama 
of  the  tumbling  divides  and  the  Broken  Horns 
unrolled  to  infinite  distances,  because  somehow 
the  gnawing  pain  of  lonesomeness  was  less 
sensible  away  from  the  dark  corners  of  the 
house.  Out  from  the  trunk  came  a  square  tin 
box  which  she  had  never  dared  open  before; 
it  had  been  a  Bluebeard's  cache,  exclusively  the 
prerogative  of  her  father  to  explore.  Almost 
a  thrill  of  expectation  attending  turning 
the  key  and  lifting  of  the  lid. 

Nothing  within  to  justify  thrills.  Just  a 
sheaf  of  papers,  a  yellow-bound  bank  book,  a 
portentous  document  with  the  arms  of  the 
United  States  graven  in  the  midst  of  a  frilled 
and  curlicued  border,  —  and  a  photograph. 
Hilma  snatched  at  the  latter  the  instant  she 
spied  it  and  let  the  hot  sunshine  fall  on  its 
dimmed  surface  while  she  gazed  at  it  many 
minutes  without  movement.  A  woman  —  a 
very  young  woman  —  gazed  back  at  her  from 
the  glossed  surface.  She  stood,  in  wedding 
dress  and  veil,  one  hand  stiffly  holding  a  bou- 


52        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

quet  in  a  paper  cornucopia,  the  other  resting 
on  the  shoulder  of  a  seated  man,  who  glared 
frozenly,  his  silk  hat  nursed  in  the  crook  of 
one  arm. 

Her  mother  and  father,  these  two.  They 
had  posed  in  wedding  finery  back  there  in  a 
forgotten  day  when  love  was  young  and  life 
lay  rosy  along  their  path.  Dully,  yet  with  a 
dogged  insistence,  Hilma's  imagination  began 
to  reconstruct  the  picture  that  lay  beyond  that 
figured  back  drop  the  photographer  had  ar- 
ranged behind  the  stiffly  posed  bridal  couple. 
The  back  drop  rolled  up  and  she  saw  these  two 

—  the  young  girl  with  her  cornucopia  of  flow- 
ers,   the   man   with    his    sacerdotal    silk   hat 

—  walk  down  a  vista  together.  She  saw  the 
figure  of  the  girl  fade  as  if  in  twilight  —  fade 
until  it  disappeared  altogether,  and  the  man 
stood  beside  a  graven  stone  on  a  cheerless 
prairie.  Then  on  and  on,  through  the  vista 
imagination  painted,  the  man  walked  stum- 
blingly,  purposelessly;  he  fell  and  rose  again, 
fell  and  struggled  to  his  feet,  then  went  down 
a  last  time 

The  girl  slowly  lifted  her  gaze  to  that  flow- 
er-blown knoll  above  the  creek  where  yester- 
day she  had  dug  a  grave,  —  the  end  of  the 


Trails   to    Two    Moons        53 

long  road.  From  the  distant  mound  of  earth 
to  the  photograph  and  back  to  the  mound  once 
more  Hilma's  eyes  traveled.  She  was  stirred 
to  depths  never  before  plumbed;  some  deep- 
lying,  half-sensed  sympathy  struggled  for  a 
form  of  thought  to  clothe  itself.  Life :  Hilma 
Ring  never  before  had  glimpsed  it  subjectively. 
Life,  with  its  promise  of  joy  and  high  hopes, 
life,  which  buffeted  and  scarred  its  creatures 
yet  held  inexorably  to  the  road  of  obstacles,  to 
fall  and  to  rise  again,  to  fall  at  last  into  the 
long  rest ;  for  the  driven  creatures  on  this  road 
of  life  rather  than  concretely  for  the  twain  of 
the  photograph  was  Hilma  Ring's  sympathy 
awakened. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  nineteen  years  the 
daughter  of  the  sheepman  of  Teapot  Creek 
recognized  herself  kin  with  that  high  blue  ram- 
part of  the  Broken  Horns,  kin  with  the  blue- 
bonnets  that  blossomed  just  beyond  the  beaten 
'dobe  of  the  dooryard.  Just  a  pencil  dot  in  a 
vast  chart. 

Catching  at  only  the  penumbra  of  this  truth, 
sensing  it  vaguely  as  some  indefinable  over- 
tone of  the  life  that  was  Hilma  Ring,  first  the 
girl  was  appalled,  then  blind  battle  lust  of  her 
Norse  forefathers  claimed  her  all  its  own. 


54       Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"Me!"  she  challenged  a  hundred-mile 
sweep  of  the  Big  Country,  and  there  was  no 
histrionic  stilting  in  her  voice,  just  a  cold  mat- 
ter-of-factness.  "  Me,  I  'm  going  to  fight  you 
—  fight  everybody.  No  love,  no  wedding  veil 
and  hand  on  some  man's  shoulder  for  me.  Just 
fight." 

Speech  cleared  the  atmosphere  of  introspec- 
tion like  a  thunderstorm.  Immediately  she 
dismissed  the  photograph  from  her  mind  — 
nor  did  it  occur  to  her  that  this  hidden  treasure 
might  have  been  a  shrine  of  a  withered  little 
man's  devotions  —  and  came  back  to  hard  dol- 
lars and  cents.  Rather  the  search  for  them,  for 
in  the  box  on  her  knees  was  not  so  much  as  a 
Mexican  dollar. 

The  bank  book  showed  her  father  had  some- 
thing over  two  thousand  dollars  to  his  credit 
in  the  Grangers'  Bank  at  Two  Moons,  but  the 
box  yielded  a  note  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
held  against  Ring,  once  renewed  and  due  again 
in  five  months;  interest  was  eight  per  cent. 
The  government  paper  was  title  to  the  home- 
stead here  on  Teapot  —  one  hundred  and  sixty 
fenced  acres  with  the  house  and  water  rights 
appertaining  thereto.  For  the  rest,  sheep 
books. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        55 

Hilma  studied  these  with  slow  thoroughness. 
Her  father's  bookkeeping  was  primitive  and 
followed  a  system  all  his  own.  The  sum  of 
three  hours'  solid  burrowing  through  the  maze 
of  crabbed  figures  and  script  —  part  of  which 
was  in  Danish,  which  the  girl  translated  with 
difficulty  —  was  this :  One  of  Old  Man  Ring's 
bands,  numbering  about  twelve  hundred,  was 
ranging  under  the  care  of  Miguez,  the  Basque, 
on  the  highlands  where  the  Crazy  Squaw 
breaks  out  of  its  gorge  in  the  Broken  Horns. 
A  second  and  smaller  band  was  thrown  in  with 
the  big  band  that  Woolly  Annie,  the  sheep 
queen  of  the  Big  Country,  was  running  over  on 
the  headwaters  of  the  Poison  Spider,  a  par- 
allel stream  down  from  the  mountains  fifteen 
miles  or  so  to  the  south  of  the  Crazy  Squaw. 
Ring  had  been  maintaining  one  sheep  wagon 
and  two  herders  with  that  outfit. 

Hilma's  assets,  so  she  figured  them,  were 
two  thousand  sheep,  two  thousand  dollars  in 
the  bank,  three  sheep  wagons,  with  their  crude 
equipment,  and  the  homestead.  Chief  of  her 
liabilities  was  that  note  for  fifteen  hundred 
dollars;  the  pay  of  the  three  herders  totaled 
seventy-five  dollars  monthly  and  sowbelly,  as 
the  phrase  of  the  country  had  it. 


56        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

There  was  no  will;  Hilma  knew  nothing 
about  wills,  anyway.  What  had  been  her 
father's  now  was  hers;  she  took  that  for 
granted.  What  disturbed  her  most  was  the 
total  absence  of  ready  cash.  She  could  not 
think  of  sheep  in  terms  of  dollars,  and  had  the 
vaguest  idea  of  how  a  sheep  or  its  wool  was 
minted  into  dollars,  what  were  the  transac- 
tions of  marketing  and  where  the  buyer  might 
be  found.  All  those  things  her  father  had  kept 
secret,  following  his  fixed  idea  that  a  woman 
had  neither  competency  nor  right  in  matters 
of  business. 

"  I  Ve  got  to  find  money.  Can't  run  a  sheep 
outfit  without  money.  Can't  run  myself  even 
without  money,"  Hilma  complained  queru- 
lously as  she  quit  her  place  in  the  doorway  and 
began  to  rummage  through  the  house.  She 
opened  the  pendulum  door  of  the  clock  with 
the  picture  of  the  Minnesota  State  capitol  on  it 
and  peered  into  the  tiny  cubby-hole.  She  ex- 
plored all  the  stones  of  the  fireplace  and  chim- 
ney throat  above  until  her  bare  arm  was  sooty 
to  the  shoulder,  but  not  one  of  them  was  loose 
or  ready  to  swing  out  to  disclose  the  hoped  for 
cache. 

"  That  old  man!,"  Hilma  caught  herself  ex- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        57 

ploding  in  anger;  then  she  regretted  the  out- 
burst. He  was  not  here  to  answer  back;  it 
was  unfair  to  quarrel  with  the  dead.  But  even 
tolerance  for  the  crotchet  of  a  dead  man  yielded 
no  dollars.  The  ransacked  house  was  bare  of 
coin  as  the  sweep  of  the  divide  down  to  the 
dooryard.  After  several  hours'  searching 
Hilma  went  back  to  the  mantel  and,  leaning 
her  elbows  on  it,  stood  looking  down  at  a  little 
stack  of  silver  piled  thereon  —  three  silver  dol- 
lars, a  quarter  and  two  dimes.  Yesterday 
Uncle  Alf  had  put  the  money  there ;  he  said  he 
had  found  it  in  her  father's  pockets. 

Three  silver  dollars,  a  quarter  and  two 
dimes!  This  was  the  available  capital  Hilma 
had  to  start  a  life  alone.  To  be  sure,  there 
was  that  two  thousand  dollars  in  the  Two 
Moons  bank,  thirty  miles  away.  But  the  girl 
never  had  been  inside  a  bank,  knew  nothing 
about  banks.  She  was  more  than  half  con- 
vinced that  nobody  but  the  one  who  deposited 
that  money  would  be  recognized  by  the  bank 
people  as  competent  to  withdraw  it.  Bankers 
were  all  sharks  she  had  heard  her  father  say 
many  times. 

The  girl  went  to  the  flour  barrel,  took  stock 
of  the  sides  of  bacon  on  the  nails  over  the  wood 


58        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

box,  opened  the  coffee  canister  and  peered  in- 
side.    Three  dollars  and  forty-five  cents 

Zang  Whistler  found  her  brooding  thus 
when  he  rode  up.  Hilma  had  not  heard  his 
pony's  hoof  beats  outside  the  door ;  she  made  a 
quick  leap  toward  the  rifle  propped  against 
one  wall  of  the  fireplace  when  the  man  from 
Teapot  Spout  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Sho,  now,  Miss  Hilma,  you  're  not  figurin' 
to  pump  lead  at  a  good  friend  come  to  make 
good  medicine  for  you."  Zang  swept  off  his 
hat  with  a  cavalier's  grace;  his  bold  eyes,  a 
little  raffish  and  devil-may-care  in  their  way 
of  falling  on  women,  were  challenging  the 
spirit  of  the  feminine  creature  to  tilt  in  the  age- 
old  tourney.  Hilma's  answering  glance,  im- 
personal and  cleanly  cold  as  light  struck  from 
crystal,  was  matched  by  her  voice: 

"You  round  here  again?  Yesterday  you 
dropped  in  right  timely  when  I  needed  you, 
but  to-day " 

"  You  're  past  needing  a  little  neighborly 
help,  I  suppose,"  Zang  cut  in  with  a  disarming 
smile.  "  Don't  need  anybody  to  advise  you  how 
to  run  the  sheep  business,  or  what  kind  of  a 
game  to  play  in  this  war  the  cow  outfits  have 
started  over  the  range  question?    All  wised  up 


Trails  to   Two   Moons        59 

along  them  lines?"  He  straddled  a  chair, 
though  the  girl  still  stood,  back  to  the  fire- 
place suggesting  anything  but  hospitality  by 
her  pose  of  calm  self-sufficiency.  The  leader  of 
the  Teapot  Spout  nest  of  outlaws  spread  out 
his  hands  with  a  giving  gesture. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Hilma,  I  didn't  ride  all 
the  way  over  here  from  the  Spout  this  morning 
just  to  have  you  play  the  old  game  of  looking 
at  me  like  I  was  some  crop-eared  coyote  yap- 
yappin'  for  his  supper.  Your  old  game  of 
makin'  small  of  me  's  sort  of  in  the  discard  now 
that  your  pappy  's  gone  over,  and  looks  to  me 
from  this  side  of  the  road  like  time  's  come  for 
you  and  Zang  Whistler  to  have  a  man  talk  to- 
gether —  all  cards  on  the  table  an'  no  sanded 
deck.     How  'bout  it?  " 

This  new  line  of  attack,  at  such  variance 
with  Zang's  accustomed  rough  gallantries  on 
the  occasions  of  his  past  visits  to  the  Ring  home 
ranch,  caught  Hilma  with  no  matching 
strategy.  She  stared  at  the  confident,  smiling 
face  of  the  cattle  rustler  with  no  attempt  to 
dissimulate  either  surprise  or  curiosity. 

"  It 's  just  this  way,  Miss  Hilma,"  Zang 
ran  on  easily,  "  whether  you  know  it  or  not  — 
and  I  reckon  not,  because  your  pappy  was 


60       Trails  to   Two   Moons 

tight-mouthed  as  any  old  porcupine  —  but 
since  you  all  took  up  your  claim  here  on  Tea- 
pot, your  pappy  's  sorta  th'owed  in  with  me  an' 
my  boys  over  to  the  Spout.  He  used  to  give 
us  information  whenever  he  heard  Original 
Bill,  the  inspector,  had  his  war  paint  on  an' 
was  projectin'  round  to  give  us  a  run;  now  an' 
then  we  'd  leave  a  few  weaned  calves  in  that 
little  hid  corral  you  've  got.  Long  an'  short 
of  it  all  is  your  pappy  was  in  pretty  deep  with 
Zang  Whistler  an'  his  outfit  of  blackballed 
cow-punchers  —  so  you  're  in,  too."  Zang's 
talking  hands  moved  to  show  his  cards  were 
falling  fairly  on  the  table. 

"  Well?  "  This  from  Hilma  without  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  Now  your  pappy's  stake  in  this  deal," 
Zang  continued  imperturbably,  "  was  an  occa- 
sional split  when  we  managed  to  run  some  of 
our  stock  over  to  Niobrara  for  a  sale,  an'  my 
promise  to  put  every  man  an'  gun  I  've  got 
in  the  Spout  behind  him  come  time  when  the 
big  cow  outfits  and  he  came  to  a  show-down  on 
the  range  fight.  That  promise  stands,  Miss 
Hilma  —  for  you  just  like  it  did  for  him." 

"  You  mean  your  boys  stand  ready  to  back 
up  the  sheep  people  with  guns?  "    For  the  first 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       61 

time  animation  fired  the  girl's  features  and  a 
light  kindled  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  did  n't  say  we  'd  back  all  the  sheep  peo- 
ple," Zang  corrected.  "  I  said  you  could 
count  on  us  in  case  the  cattle  outfits  start  to 
move  your  sheep  off  the  range.  An'  listen, 
girl,  that  time  isn't  far  off  as  I  reckon  it. 
Here  's  the  layout.  Five  years  ago,  when  ole 
Woolly  Annie  was  the  first  to  bring  sheep  into 
this  country,  the  Hashknife  an'  the  Flying  O 
an'  the  Circle  Y  outfits  drawed  a  line  down 
along  the  spurs  of  the  Broken  Horns  an'  says, 
*  Everything  east  of  this  line  's  cattle  range; 
keep  your  woollies  back  in  the  high  ground.' 

"  But  'long  comes  old  Hard  Winter  Peters 
up  on  Beaver,  an'  he  runs  his  sheep  across  the 
dead  line.  Then  your  pappy  breezes  in  with 
his  band  on  Crazy  Squaw,  inside  the  cowmen's 
boundary,  an'  th'ows  in  with  Woolly  Annie. 
Not  to  mention  Zang  Whistler,  who  has  ways 
of  his  own  for  invadin'  the  cow  outfits'  rights. 
Which  it 's  all  made  the  big  cow  owners  to 
Cheyenne  and  back  in  England  plumb  restless 
an'  rollicky  as  a  new-broke  bronc.  So  they  sets 
this  shorthorn,  Original  Bill  —  which  he  an'  me 
used  to  ride  night  herd  together  on  many  a 
drive  up  the  ole  Plummer  Trail  —  they  sets 


62        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

him  on  the  trail  of  Zang  Whistler  an'  a-snoop- 
in'  round  keeping  a  lookout  on  the  sheep  people 
who  're  invadin'  the  cattle  range.  Fact  he 
called  here  other  day  shows  you  're  on  his  black- 
list. 

"  But  still  the  sheep  keep  edgin'  in  an'  edgin' 
in  —  your  pappy's,  ole  Woolly  Annie's  an'  all 
the  rest  —  an'  still  Zang  Whistler  rides  out  of 
Teapot  Spout  to  see  what  he  can  see.  You  're 
folio  win'  close? " 

Hilma  nodded  tensely.  Her  visitor  was 
touching  upon  that  subject  which  had  called 
forth  such  fiery  prophecies  of  woe  from  Uncle 
Alf ,  which  had  moved  her  to  vow  undying  en- 
mity against  the  barons  of  the  Big  Country; 
he  revealed  much  she  had  only  guessed  under 
her  father's  tight-lipped  dominion.  Zang  drove 
home  his  point  with  unconscious  eloquence.  He 
had  risen  from  his  chair  and  now  stood  facing 
the  girl. 

"So  you  see,  the  big  owners  are  gettin' 
mighty  riled  up;  an'  they  hired  the  Killer  to 
go  through  the  range  country  an'  do  with  his 
rifle  —  sneaking  behind  coulee  banks  an'  pot- 
shotting  from  under  bridges  —  and  do  with  a 
rifle  what  they  can't  do  with  strong  talk.  They 
aim  to  scare  the  sheepmen  an'  homesteaders 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        63 

who  Ve  busted  up  their  range  with  fence  lines 
—  scare  'em  out  of  the  country  by  killings. 
Your  pappy,  ole  Hard  Winter  Peters,  Jay 
North  —  all  lyin'  with  a  stone  on  their  heads 
so  's  the  Killer  can  collect  for  his  tally  from  the 
big  augers  down  to  Cheyenne. 

"  When  they  savvy  murders  an'  killing  in 
the  dark  won't  work,  what 's  the  next  step  ? 
Just  as  sure  as  prairie  dogs  have  chin  whiskers, 
girl,  the  powerfulest  men  in  the  Stockmen's 
Alliance  '11  play  their  last  card.  They  '11  hire 
a  gang  of  bad  men  and  quick  shots  to  come 
into  this  country  an'  clean  up  —  just  like  those 
Montana  Vigilantes  did  a  few  years  ago.  Then 
it 's  goin'  to  be  knock-down-an'-drag-out,  an* 
hell's  cinders  flyin'  every  which  way." 

"  Sooner  that  comes  the  better,"  the  girl 
gritted,  her  mouth  pulled  down  in  a  hard  bow 
of  hate.  Zang,  who  gloried  in  his  new-found 
power  finally  to  play  upon  the  emotions  of 
this  baffling  creature  of  cold  beauty,  permitted 
a  new  note  to  creep  into  his  voice,  one  of  tender 
solicitude: 

"  What  are  you  aimin'  to  do,  girl?  How  're 
you  goin'  to  tackle  life  when  all  these  things 
I  Ve  been  specifyin'  are  buildin'  right  up  in 
front  of  you?  "  Hilma's  eyes  instantly  became 


64        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

glazed  over  with  their  old  defensive  aloofness. 
Their  cold  stare  seared  like  needles  of  liquefied 
air. 

"  Me?  Why,  I  'm  going  to  run  my  sheep; 
that's  all."  Zang's  face  suddenly  went  red; 
he  took  a  swift  step  toward  the  girl. 

"  No,  you  're  not,  girl,"  came  his  hot  words. 
"  You  're  not  goin'  to  stand  up  against  a 
cyclone  alone  —  not  when  I  Ve  got  every 
claim  on  you  a  man  can  have."  Hilma's  lips 
were  parted  in  a  slow,  teasing  smile;  her  eyes 
mocked. 

"  They  call  me  an  outlaw,"  Zang's  words 
tumbled  on  tumultuously.  "  Well,  you  're  an 
outlaw  at  heart,  an'  fit  to  team  up  with  another 
of  the  same  brand.  You  're  comin'  with  me 
over  to  the  Spout  so  's  we  can  see  through  to- 
gether all  the  hell  that  busts  loose  an' " 

Zang  leaped  lightly  as  a  mountain  cat  and 
threw  an  arm  about  Hilma's  waist.  His  free 
hand  he  slipped  under  her  chin  to  force  her 
head,  with  its  glory  of  dandelion  gold,  back 
for  the  kiss  his  lips  flamed  to  give.  The  eyes 
that  blazed  so  close  to  his  were  wild  as  a 
trapped  panther's.  Full  lips  so  near  his  parted 
over  sharp  teeth  in  almost  an  animal  snarl. 

Hilma  did  not  scream.    She  merely  slashed 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       65 

Zang  twice  across  the  face  from  ear  to  chin 
with  lightning  sweep  of  her  nails,  then  bowed 
her  strong  shoulders  and  pressed  one  knee 
against  his  thigh  to  break  his  hold  upon  her. 

"  This  kiss  —  is  comin'  —  with  interest 
added  on  to  it,"  Zang  panted.  Silently,  des- 
perately the  girl  fought  him. 

A  figure  darkened  the  doorway.  Came  a 
drawling  voice :  "  Ex-cuse  me ! " 

Zang  Whistler  released  the  girl  and  leaped 
back,  his  hand  dropping  swiftly  toward  his 
hip. 

Original  Bill  Blunt,  the  range  inspector, 
stood  with  shoulder  against  doorpost,  laugh- 
ing silently. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"An'  now,"  quoth  Timberline  Todd,  "  we  '11 
top  off  this  feed  of  victuals  with  a  flock  of  can 
peaches.  I  always  did  favor  can  peaches  since 
once  over  to  No  Wood  in  the  winter  of  Ninety 

—  no,  I  reckon  it  must  'a'  been  in  the  late  fall 

—  that  was  the  winter  I  froze  my  left  laig 
ridin' " 

"  If  you  said  can  peaches,"  interrupted 
Andy  Dorson,  across  the  table,  "  that 's 
enough;  I  don't  need  no  introduction  to  'em 
personal." 

The  friend  of  can  peaches  scowled.  His 
gaunt,  leathery  cheeks  were  sucked  inward, 
and  the  drooping  tips  of  his  frizzled  mustache 
twitched  petulantly. 

"  The  same  I  was  declarin',"  he  took  up  his 
tale  with  measured  emphasis,  "  it  bein'  the  late 
fall  of  Ninety,  an'  Mis'  Bonnie  Blackburn 
specifyin'  to  hold  a  sociable  to  raise  the  dust 
for  a  Methody  church,  which  there  never  was 


Trails   to    Two    Moons        67 

a  livelier  cricket  in  shoe  leather  than  this  Bon- 
nie girl,  purty  as  a  Christmas  card  an'  always 
on  the  prod  to  start  somethin'  for  the  good  of 
he-men's  souls " 

Andy  Dorson's  impatient  eye  had  signaled 
distress  to  Phenie  Logan,  the  trim  little  per- 
son who  "  dealt  'em  off  the  arm  "  at  the  Rhi- 
noceros Eating  House,  Two  Moons'  justly 
popular  restaurant.  Phenie,  crisply  fresh  and 
refreshing  to  the  eye  in  blue  print  dress  and 
starched  apron,  sleeves  rolled  up  from  round 
arms,  hair  of  sunburned  gold  piled  high  in  a 
Psyche  knot,  had  moved  down  to  the  table 
where  the  two  cronies  from  the  Hashknife  out- 
fit were  dining.  She  laid  one  competent  hand, 
knuckles  down,  on  the  tablecloth  to  indicate  to 
the  absorbed  Timberline  her  immediate  readi- 
ness to  serve.  Timberline,  again  interrupted, 
looked  up  dazedly. 

"  He  says  two  cans  of  can  peaches,  Mis' 
Phenie,"  Andy  interpreted. 

"  An'  make  'em  Minervy  brand,  Mis' 
Phenie,"  Timberline  hastily  interposed. 
"  That  was  the  brand  Bonnie  Blackburn  chose 
for  her  Methody  church  raffle  because  the 
name  's  religious." 

"  Religious?  "  Andy  echoed  with  heavy  sur- 


68        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

prise.  "  Draw  me  a  picture,  Timberline,  of 
this  religious  brand  of  can  peaches." 

Phenie  Logan  tossed  her  head  with  a  rip- 
pling laugh  and  lingered  to  enjoy  to  the  full 
the  reactions  already  charting  their  course 
across  Timberline's  weathered  features.  The 
elderly  cow-punch  had  slammed  his  knife 
and  fork  down  on  his  plate;  a  single  tug 
whipped  the  sleazy  napkin  from  where  it  was 
tucked  under  his  bulging  Adam's  apple;  the 
legs  of  his  chair  slithered  in  a  backward  push 
across  the  sanded  floor.  Timberline  Todd's 
blue  eyes,  usually  mild  as  the  cups  of  a  wind- 
flower,  had  hardened  to  sizzling  carbon  points. 
His  cheeks  were  sucked  in  until  the  knobs  of 
his  jaw  sockets  stood  out  like  twin  headlands 
on  the  bleak  contour  of  his  features. 

"  I  takes  into  count,  Andy  Dorson,"  old 
Todd  began  with  studied  politeness,  "  you  was 
born  somewheres  under  a  barn,  an'  your  early 
trainin'  —  most  particular  religious  uprairin' 
—  was  'bout  as  lackin'  as  a  hermit  Mote's ;  but 
allowin'  for  them  drawbacks  —  the  same  you 
bein'  not  accountable  for  —  anybody  but  a 
Crow  squaw  knows  Minervy  at  the  Well, 
which  she  is  in  the  same  class  with  Ole  Man 
Noah  an'  his  ark  for  gen'ral  publicity. 


Trails   to   Two    Moons        69 

"  Miss  Phenie,  if  you  '11  be  so  kind,  just  rope 
two  cans  of  Minervy-at-the-Well  can  peaches." 

Now  it  was  Andy  Dorson's  turn  to  lose  his 
temper.  His  friend's  aspersions  on  his  imme- 
diate forbears  and  the  deficiencies  of  his  early 
education,  loosed  against  him  as  they  were  in 
the  presence  of  Phenie  Logan  —  admittedly 
Two  Moons'  reigning  belle  —  were  deliberate 
and  unprovoked  insults.  No  long  span  of 
friendship  could  brook  such  incharity.  More- 
over, Andy  hated  to  see  a  man  old  as  Timber- 
line  Todd  display  so  publicly  his  appalling 
ignorance. 

"  Of  course,"  he  began  in  a  languid  drawl, 
"  anybody  whose  early  youth  was  spent  her  din' 
sheep,  when  he  wasn't  languishin'  in  jail  for 
bustin'  the  statues  made  an'  appointed, 
couldn't  accumulate  much  in  the  gen'ral  line 
of  ancient  history.  If  this  child  of  misfortune 
I  'm  specifyin'  had  had  even  a  Chinaman's 
chance  at  a  education  he  'd  'a'  known  this  here 
Minervy  never  knew  about  wells  an'  water 
holes,  she  bein'  rated  high  in  the  queen  stuff. 
Which  she  packed  up  her  war  bag,  come  Christ- 
mas holidays,  an'  went  to  propose  marriage  to 
Ole  Man  Solomon,  knowin'  him  to  be  a  right 
smart  marryin'  man." 


70        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Timberline  gazed  long  into  the  eyes  of  his 
erstwhile  friend.  Scorn  and  pity  sought  for 
possession  of  his  own  steely  eyes.  He  sud- 
denly turned  in  his  seat  and  hailed  Phenie,  who 
was  standing  on  a  chair  before  a  shelf  of  canned 
goods  up  near  the  street  door. 

"  If  you  '11  be  so  kind,  Mis'  Phenie,  just  trot 
them  can  peaches  along  in  the  cans."  Then  to 
Andy:  "Dorson,  I  don't  aim  at  makin'  any  is- 
sue of  this  Minervy  business,  howbe  you  're  sure 
makin'  a  triple  X  roach-haired  dam'  fool  of 
yourself.  But  facts  is  facts  even  in  the  hands 
of  pore  ignorant  orphans.  To  mark  this  trail 
broad:  Minervy  was  a  right  handsome  Jew 
girl  who  lived  back  in  them  days  before  the 
Mexican  War.  Her  pappy  used  to  send  her 
to  the  well  to  tote  water  for  the  family.  An' 
once  she  was  just  fillin'  up  the  old  pitcher 
when  an  outfit  of  strangers  come  along  the 
trail  with  camels,  which  they  used  to  break  to 
saddle  them  days  for  some  reason  I  ain't  pre- 
pared to  state. 

"  So  this  Minervy  girl  not  only  watered  all 
the  strangers  but  she  watered  all  the  camels. 
Which  it  wore  her  plumb  thin  to  do,  a  camel 
takin'  enough  water  in  his  system  at  one  settin' 
to  do  a  small  herd  of  steers.    So  she  got  herself 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        71 

a  big  reputation  in  them  parts  as  a  camel 
waterer,  an'  some  artist  painted  her  picture. 
Parson  Hollingshed  over  to  No  Wood  had  it 
hung  up  in  his  setting  room ;  which  it  has  under- 
neath the  picture,  Minervy  at  the  Well." 

Phenie  arrived  at  the  table  just  then  with 
two  cans  of  peaches,  their  tops  opened  and 
turned  back.  Behind  the  pretty  biscuit  shooter 
followed  another  figure  whom  the  disputants 
in  the  heat  of  their  argument  failed  to  observe. 
An  arresting  shape  she  was.  Of  enormous 
girth,  which  was  more  solid  muscle  than  fat; 
big  masculine  hands  ungloved;  a  ridiculously 
inadequate  bonnet  with  some  nightmare  feather 
sprouting  out  from  its  crown  resting  on  her 
great  head  like  half  an  eggshell  on  a  globe  of 
the  world;  the  woman  appeared  a  demobilized 
Amazon  translated  from  legendary  Pontus  to 
the  Big  Country.  When  she  took  a  seat  at  the 
table  across  the  room  from  the  two  cowmen 
her  feet,  shod  with  men's  boots,  stuck  out  be- 
yond the  table  line.  Over  each  boot  the  turned- 
up  leg  of  a  pair  of  overalls  showed  under  the 
hem  of  her  calico  skirt.  She  ordered  ham  and 
eggs,  "  fry  'em  easy";  her  smile,  wholly  fem- 
inine and  all  motherly,  accompanied  the  order 
she  gave  to  Phenie. 


72        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

This  was  Woolly  Annie,  the  sheep  queen,  in 
from  her  sheep  range  on  the  headwaters  of 
Poison  Spider  for  a  spree  of  buying  in  Two 
Moons.  Once  comfortably  seated,  she  ob- 
served the  two  cowmen  leisurely.  Her  great 
moon  face,  red  and  wind-wrinkled  as  a  frosted 
apple,  gathered  into  a  quizzical  mask  of  toler- 
ant disgust  —  as  if  from  a  safe  distance  she 
were  watching  two  skunks  at  play.  Timber- 
line  Todd,  leaning  forward  elbows  on  table  and 
a  can  of  peaches  between  his  hands,  was  hold- 
ing up  for  the  other's  inspection  the  gaudy 
gold  and  red  label. 

"  See  that  woman  in  the  picture?  "  he  was 
adjuring  in  a  high  nasal  whine;  "that  there  's 
Minervy  at  the  Well  like  I  told  you." 

"  Minervy's  grandma's  pet  aunt!"  Andy 
Dorson  snorted.  "  Show  me  a  camel  standin* 
round  anywhere  in  the  picture  waitin'  to  be 
watered  by  a  Jew  girl.  Show  me  a  pitcher! 
Show  me  a  well !  An'  what 's  Minervy  doin' 
with  that  ox-goad  she  's  got  in  her  hand?  Why 
she  wearin'  that  helmet  on  her  head?  Answer 
me  pronto,  Mister  Todd." 

A  distinct  snort  from  the  direction  of  the 
table  where  sat  Woolly  Annie  —  a  snort  from 
Gargantuan  nostrils.    Neither  of  the  cowmen 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        73 

heeded.  They  were  leaning  across  opposite 
sides  of  the  table,  face  to  face,  flaming  eye  to 
flaming  eye.  The  can  of  peaches  between  them 
quivered  and  slopped  sticky  liquor  over  its  rim. 

"  Anybody  but  a  sheep-stealin'  son  of  a 
Blackfoot  mother  beater  could  tell  that  there  's 
Queen  Minervy  all  rigged  out  in  her  war 
paint  to  go  make  marriage  medicine  with 
Ole  Man  Solomon,  king  of  the  Jews!  "  Andy 
Dorson  was  tapping  the  label  on  the  can  with 
a  graphic  forefinger  while  speech  tumbled 
smoking  hot  from  the  furnace  of  his  mouth. 

Again  the  whiffling  snort  from  Woolly 
Annie.  Both  men  turned  their  faces  toward 
the  source  of  the  interruption.  They  saw  a 
big  hand  cram  a  napkin  into  a  cavernous  mouth 
while  a  huge  torso,  showing  above  the  table 
top,  quivered  and  rippled  with  suppressed 
laughter.  They  recognized  the  sheep  queen  of 
Poison  Spider  despite  the  paroxysms  that 
racked  her.  Timberline  Todd  allowed  the  can 
of  peaches  he  held  to  sink  slowly  to  the  table. 
There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  Then,  in  the 
most  casual  tone  in  the  world,  from  Timber- 
line: 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  I  was  sayin'  before  interrupted, 
that 's  a  mighty  sad  thing  I  heard  tell  about 


74        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

this  here  Elk  Waters  from  down  Panhandle 
way." 

Gone  in  an  instant  was  the  flush  from  the 
cheeks  of  both  men;  sped  was  the  light  of 
battle  from  their  eyes.  Their  whole  attitude 
was  one  of  slightly  bored  lassitude ;  to  Timber- 
line's  new  lead  Andy  made  languid  answer  as 
he  speared  a  half  peach  from  his  can  with  a  fork 
and  pouched  it. 

"  You  were  sayin'  he  was  infortunate " 

quoth  Andy. 

"  Infortunate  's  a  mild  word  for  poor  Elk's 
case,"  drawled  Timberline,  as  he  tilted  his 
fruit  can  and  poured  out  a  spoonful  of  sirup. 
"  First  year  they  moved  up  from  the  Pan- 
handle into  this  Big  Country  Elk's  old  man 
got  bit  by  a  hydrophoby  skunk.  It  didn't 
take  on  him  for  nigh  a  week,  then  he  went  just 
a-rarin' ;  peared  like  he  figured  he  was  a  skunk 
with  a  bushy  tail,  an'  finally  Elk  had  to  kill 
him  with  an  ax." 

"Sho!"  chuckled  Andy  in  sympathy. 

"  Then  Elk's  brother,  little  Elk,  sorta  fell 
into  bad  company  up  on  the  Musselshell  an' 
the  Vigilance  Committee  had  to  run  him  down 
an'  hang  him  to  a  cottonwood  limb  one  cold 
day  in  January." 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       75 

"  Hum-hum!  "  Andy's  head  wagged  dolor- 
ously. Woolly  Annie's  ham  and  eggs  had  ar- 
rived, but  there  was  no  knife-and-fork  clatter 
from  her  table.  The  air  of  the  two  cowmen 
was  absolutely  detached  and  isolated.  They 
might  have  been  miles  from  the  nearest  listener. 
Timberline  sighed  gustily. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  got  rid 
by  hard  luck  so  hard  as  this  here  Elk  Waters. 
Seemed  like  the  devil  just  marked  him  for  his 
child.  Le  's  see  what  else.  Oh,  yes,  after  his 
wife  got  burned  up  in  Elk's  little  old  soddy 
when  the  baby  pulled  the  lamp  over  on  hisself , 
Elk  he  got  plumb  meloncholy  an'  he  finally 
took  to  herdin'  sheep." 

Bang!  went  a  coffee  cup  into  its  saucer  at 
the  adjacent  table. 

"  He  was  low  in  his  mind,"  Andy  volun- 
teered.    Timberline  droned  on: 

"  His  sheep  et  up  most  of  the  range  over  in 
the  Basin  and  then  they  took  to  browsin'  down 
people's  woodpiles  and  eatin'  the  geraniums 
the  womenfolks  nussed  tenderly  in  their  win- 
dow boxes,  an'  Elk  begins  to  be  afraid  he  's 
gettin'  the  blats  besides  fallin'  hair  and  stone 
in  the  kidneys.  Poor  ole  Elk  don't  mind  the 
fallin'  hair  an'  stone  in  the  kidneys  nigh  so 


76        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

much  as  he  's  afraid  of  the  blats.  So  last  win- 
ter he  goes  to  Arkansaw  Hot  Springs  to  get 
the  blats  boiled  out  of  him,  he  bein'  strong  as 
a  red  onion  of  the  sheep.  But  pore  ole  Elk 
gets  his  last  an'  worse  blow  down  to  the 
Springs. 

"  '  No  use  your  coming  here,'  says  the  doc 
in  charge  of  the  Springs.  '  We  can  boil  out 
rheumatics  like  we  'd  boil  shirts,  an'  we  can 
cure  lepresy  an'  send  cripples  home  good  as 
new,  but  there  ain't  no  springs  invented  which 
can  boil  the  sheep  blats  out  of  a  sheep  herder.' ' 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  chair  pushed  back,  a 
few  heavy  treads  which  made  the  eating-house 
floor  tremble,  and  Woolly  Annie  stood  by 
Andy  and  Timberline's  table.  She  turned  her 
great  moon  face  to  one,  then  to  the  other;  it 
was  bland  and  unruffled  as  the  shell  of  a  pump- 
kin in  harvest  frost. 

"  Gentlemen,  both,"  said  Woolly  Annie, 
and  with  lightninglike  movement  her  hands  had 
shot  out  and  wrapped  themselves  about  the  two 
half-consumed  cans  of  peaches.  Before  either 
man  could  recover  from  the  shock  of  her  attack, 
the  cans  were  inverted  over  their  respective 
heads.  Heavy  globes  of  fruit  and  streams  of 
sticky  sirup  cascaded  down  on  each. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        77 

"  Minervy  at  the  Well  —  that 's  me,"  came 
the  throaty  rumble.  She  deftly  caromed  each 
emptied  can  off  a  drenched  head,  then  marched 
to  where  Phenie  Logan  was  rolling  in  agony 
of  silent  mirth  behind  the  cigar  counter. 

"  Get  on  your  bonnet,  Phenie  girl,"  she  com- 
manded, "  and  come  down  to  the  Boston  Store 
to  help  me  pick  out  some  crepe-desheeny  night- 
gowns for  myself  an'  my  girl  Tweenie." 


CHAPTER   VII 

With  the  keen  and  competent  Phenie  — 
arbiter  of  fashion  for  Two  Moons'  younger  set 
—  to  play  sponsor  for  her  taste  and  buffer  be- 
tween her  buckskin  bag  of  gold  pieces  and  the 
cupidity  of  the  storekeepers,  Woolly  Annie 
shopped  gorgeously.  For  her  numerous  tribe 
out  on  Poison  Spider,  that  is  to  say,  rather 
than  in  her  own  interests.  The  sheep  queen's 
sartorial  needs  were  strictly  Spartan;  overalls 
for  the  range,  with  a  calico  skirt  to  wear  over 
that  bifurcated  utility  when  she  rode  to  town; 
certain  shrieking  red  flannel  substantiate  which 
had  a  way  of  glowing  like  a  blind  fire  through 
whatever  print  stuff  covered  her  huge  torso ;  a 
bonnet  —  always  the  same  bonnet  —  for  town 
wear.  That  was  about  all.  But  for  her  brood, 
numbering  nine  and  stepladdered  down  from 
twenty  to  the  comparatively  tender  age  of 
eight  —  the  last  a  posthumous  child  serving  as 
a  memento  of  a  father  who  had  eloped  with  a 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        79 

burlesque  queen  in  Cheyenne  —  for  this  brood 
of  likely  youngsters  the  sheep  queen's  buck- 
skin money  bag  would  ever  yawn  its  widest. 

Woolly  Annie  preserved  no  vain  illusions 
on  the  subject  of  personal  adornment.  She 
realized  most  sensibly  that  the  task  of  land- 
scaping her  in  terms  of  laces  and  organdies 
would  be  equivalent  to  planting  Sleepy  Ned 
Mountain  to  geraniums  and  myrtles.  But  for 
Cathay,  her  eldest,  for  Ravenna,  Sophia, 
Christiania  and  Perugia  —  all  born  during  the 
term  of  subscription  to  the  World's  Atlas  and 
Book  of  Knowledge,  dollar  down  and  five 
ditto  a  year  —  for  these  fortunate  ones  Two 
Moons'  best  was  little  enough. 

"  I  've  spent  my  life  raisin'  sheep  an'  chil- 
dren," was  the  lady's  usual  summary  of  her 
philosophy  of  work.  "  A  sheep  's  dressed  by 
nature,  but  a  kid  's  like  a  painted  picture  — 
you  gotta  touch  it  up,  an'  the  artisticer  the  bet- 
ter, I  says." 

Woolly  Annie  and  Phenie  were  the  center  of 
a  small  maelstrom  in  the  Boston  Cash  Store. 
The  giantess  from  Poison  Spider  was  stand- 
ing, booted  feet  wide  apart,  bold  eye  ranging 
the  stocked  shelves  and  upon  her  broad  cheeks 
a  mantling  flush  of  triumph.    What  she  com- 


8o        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

manded  a  spidery  little  clerk  made  haste  to 
display.  A  near-by  counter  was  a  welter  of 
bolts  of  gingham,  of  boxes  uncovered  to  dis- 
play intimate  treasures,  knots  of  cerise  and 
cherry-colored  ribbon.  The  sheep  queen,  with 
a  frank  and  free  movement  lifted  one  hem  of 
her  calico  skirt  and  plunged  a  huge  hand  into 
a  concealed  pocket  of  her  overalls.  She 
brought  out  from  the  depths  a  length  of  string 
knotted  at  several  places. 

"  An'  now  corsets,  young  man,"  she  com- 
manded grandly.  "  Phenie,  lift  up  your  arms 
an'  let  me  see  how  you  measure  up  with  my 
Cathay,  which  she 's  developed  remarkable 
since  I  bought  her  that  last  pair." 

The  surprised  Phenie  demurred  at  so  uncon- 
ventional a  comparison.  But  Woolly  Annie 
simply  went  ahead  with  her  domestic  survey- 
ing, reassuring  the  girl  in  a  hoarse  whisper 
that  could  have  been  heard  out  on  Main  Street 
that  "  nobody  should  mind  a  poor  little  water 
spider  like  him."  The  clerk's  fanlike  ears 
registered  mortification  even  while  he  dis- 
creetly turned  his  back  in  pretense  of  search- 
ing the  shelves. 

"  Just  what  I  told  Cathay!  "  came  the  boom- 
ing triumph  from  the  lips  of  the  sheep  queen. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        81 

"  I  says  to  my  Cathay,  when  we  was  makin' 
mention  of  corsets,  '  If  you  don't  take  the  same 
measure  as  Phenie  Logan  I  'm  a  Chinaman,' 
I  says.  '  But  she  's  a  perfec'  thirty-four,  ma/ 
Cathay  comes  back,  she  bein'  read  up  from  that 
flock  of  pattern  magazines  I  bought  her  last 
Christmas. 

"  ■  Since  when,'  says  I,  *  have  they  begun  to 
measure  figgers  like  quarter  sections?  Perfec' 
thirty- four  —  huh !  Me,  I  guess  I  know  who  's 
got  a  figger  an'  who  ain't  without  —  now 
young  man,  if  you  Ve  got  your  stock  of  corsets 
laid  out,  this  is  what  I  want."  She  held  up 
the  knotted  string  taut  between  stretched 
hands.  "  This  here  farthest  knot 's  Cathay's 
measure  round  the  bust;  next  one  's  Sophia  an' 
this  shortest  one  belongs  to  my  Peruggy,  this 
bein'  her  first  pair  of  stays  an'  the  girl  just  all 
boiled  up  with  excitement  'bout  'em." 

Woolly  Annie,  hands  on  hips  and  counte- 
nance beaming  unadulterated  joy,  awaited  the 
joint  conference  between  Phenie  and  the  clerk 
over  the  practical  interpretation  of  the  knots. 
Finally  the  corresponding  articles  of  web  and 
steel  were  set  aside.  Then  suddenly  from  the 
shepherdess  of  Poison  Spider: 

"  Young  fella,  how  big  are  you  round  the 


82        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

waist?  "  The  skittish  clerk  admitted  that  was 
a  point  of  information  he  did  not  carry  round 
in  his  mind. 

"  Find  out,"  commanded  Woolly  Annie, 
and  she  bent  a  stern  eye  upon  him  while  he 
sought  a  tape  measure  and  cinctured  himself 
with  it.  "  You  're  bowed  some,"  was  her  blunt 
comment  following  a  swift  glance  along  the 
suffering  clerk's  extremities,  "  but  I  don't 
reckon  sprung  legs  make  any  never  mind  with 
the  length  of  pants.  You  seem  to  have  the 
same  gen'ral  get-up  for  pants  as  my  boy  Dol- 
phus  so  I  '11  take  two  pairs  of  pants  which  'd 
fit  on  to  you."  Then  in  confidence  to  the  little 
biscuit  shooter  as  the  clerk  hopped  to  the  rear 
of  the  store  where  the  gents'  furnishings  were 
kept:  "  That  Dolphus  of  mine  gets  just 
a-rarin'  and  a-tearin'  when  I  buys  pants  an' 
such  for  him.  Says  a  boy  eighteen  oughta  pick 
out  his  own  pants. 

"  '  All  right,'  says  I,  '  any  time  you  earn 
yourself  five  dollars  you  hop  on  a  horse  an' 
come  into  town  an'  blow  yourself  to  some  pants. 
Meantime  your  old  woman  's  got  judgment 
enough  to  buy  leg  hobbles  for  a  wuthless  no- 
count  son  —  more  particular  since  she  wears 
'em  herself! '  "    The  lady  finished  this  revela- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        83 

tion  of  domestic  economy  with  a  raucous  hoot 
such  as  passed  with  her  for  sprightly  laughter. 

The  orgy  in  the  Boston  Cash  Store  was  not 
completed  until  the  lady  in  hidden  overalls  had 
cajoled  and  threatened  Phenie  to  choose  for 
herself  something  nifty  in  shirt  waists,  this 
being  Woolly  Annie's  unvarying  preroga- 
tive in  the  direction  of  reward  for  the  girl's 
shopping  instincts,  always  requisitioned.  Then 
the  sheep  woman  swung  out  into  Main  Street 
alone  while  Phenie  hurried  back  to  preside 
over  whatever  short  orders  might  come  to  the 
Rhihoceros  during  the  afternoon.  The  mother 
of  the  promising  nine  on  the  Poison  Spider 
consciously  made  her  peregrinations  up  the 
town's  chief  street  a  sort  of  unofficial  triumph. 
Who  would  not  if  a  trip  to  town  was  some- 
thing repeated  but  three  or  four  times  on  the 
year's  calendar? 

She  stopped  to  roll  and  smoke  a  cigarette 
with  Sheriff  Red  Agnew  in  front  of  the  Home- 
steader bar.  She  hailed  with  trumpet  voice 
old  Dad  Armbruster,  owner  of  the  Yellow 
and  Black  sheep  outfit  up  on  the  headwaters 
of  Crazy  Squaw,  and  held  him  in  a  half -hour 
professional  conversation  on  the  outlook  for 
the  next  shearing  and  what  in  deletion  he  was 


84       Trails   to   Two   Moons 

doing  to  keep  down  the  pesky  kiotes  this  sea- 
son. The  afternoon  was  far  spent  —  and  far- 
ther the  golden  double  eagles  in  Woolly  An- 
nie's buckskin  bag  —  when  regretfully  she 
turned  into  the  Occidental  Hotel  to  get  what 
she  termed  a  wash-up.  It  was  her  intention  to 
spend  the  night  in  that  hostelry;  the  home 
ranch  on  Poison  Spider  was  thirty- three  miles 
out  over  the  tumbling  divides,  and  its  mistress 
had  no  inclination  to  wear  herself  to  a  shadow 
by  making  the  distance  to  town  and  back  be- 
tween suns. 

Meanwhile  her  presence  in  Two  Moons  set 
certain  currents  to  swirling  in  quiet  places. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  ultimate  resistant 
citadel  of  the  cattle  clan  in  Two  Moons  —  so 
swiftly  turning  from  a  cow  town  into  a  camp 
of  cowmen's  enemies  —  was  the  Capitol  Sa- 
loon, Dad  Strayhorn,  proprietor.  And  of  that 
citadel  the  sacred  inner  chamber  of  the  clan's 
elect,  always  most  closely  tiled,  was  a  certain 
upstairs  room  of  furnishings  the  simplest, — 
just  a  green  baize  covered  table  with  a  slot  in 
its  exact  center,  seven  chairs,  four  cuspidors 
decorated  with  blue  daisy  chains  about  their 
flaring  rims  and  a  sideboard  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  cigars,  strong  waters  and  —  on  occa- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        85 

sions  of  lengthy  sessions  —  food.  In  this  sacro- 
sanct room  usually  could  be  found  the  stiffest 
game  north  of  Denver.  Not  a  paltry  pastime 
of  diddling  away  white  chips  on  jacks  or  better, 
but  a  game  with  the  hair  on,  wherein  not  in- 
frequently the  disposition  of  an  entire  shipment 
of  fattened  beef  cattle  depended  solely  on 
catching  a  flush  filler  or  making  a  king-full 
stand  up. 

Here  the  lordly  foremen  of  cow  outfits  num- 
bering their  thousands  gathered  around  the 
green  baize  to  have  a  hack  at  Fortune's  trailing 
robe,  even  though  a  year's  salary  and  bonuses 
might  be  the  price  of  that  lady's  disfavor. 
Here,  too,  the  occasional  big  director  of  one  of 
the  cattle  companies  up  from  Cheyenne  or  out 
from  Washington  played  his  yellows  against 
a  rival  director's.  It  is  legend  with  the  Capi- 
tol that  a  titled  young  man  representing  a 
great  English  cattle  concern  and  visiting  the 
Big  Country  for  the  first  time,  "  did  n't  know 
the  game  of  draw  ",  and  after  thirty-six  hours 
steady  in  Dad  Strayhorn's  upper  room  took  the 
stage  out  with  a  little  more  than  $90,000  but- 
toned under  his  tweeds. 

Not  for  the  lowly  or  the  casual  cowpunch 
was  this  quiet  upper  room.    Dad  himself  was 


86       Trails   to   Two   Moons 

perpetual  tiler  over  the  door  leading  thereto. 
To  Dad  came  Timberline  Todd  and  Andy 
Dorson  shortly  after  their  encounter  with 
Woolly  Annie;  each  man  still  carried  about 
his  person  the  faintly  reminiscent  perfume  of 
Minervy-brand  can  peaches.  While  Dad  him- 
self poured  out  their  liquor  —  an  honor  the 
Capitol's  proprietor  reserved  only  for  old  trail 
mates  —  Timberline  asked  in  a  lowered  voice 
if  "  they  "  were  upstairs.  In  these  days  of 
crisis  and  the  rumbling  portents  of  a  storm  in 
the  Big  Country  one  of  Timberline's  tested 
loyalty  could  ask  concerning  the  occupants  of 
the  sacred  chamber  without  violation  of  prece- 
dent; Dad  Strayhorn  knew  nothing  less  than 
emergency  could  prompt  an  invasion  of  the 
mysteries  above.     He  gravely  nodded. 

"  When  you  go  up  with  the  next  round," 
Timberline    earnestly    whispered,    "  tell    'em 

"    He  bent  his  lips  close  to  Strayhorn's 

ear  to  finish  the  sentence.  The  wind  wrinkles 
in  Dad's  countenance  did  not  flicker  a  betrayal 
of  any  interest  over  the  intelligence  Timberline 
communicated.  The  two  cronies  from  the 
Hashknife  outfit  sipped  their  drink.  Stray- 
horn  disappeared  through  the  mystic  door.  A 
few  minutes  later  he  emerged  from  the  guarded 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        87 

stairway  and,  catching  Timberline's  eye,  gave 
his  head  a  perceptible  jerk  in  the  direction 
whence  he  had  come.  Timberline  moved  casu- 
ally through  the  crowd  of  the  Capitol's  patrons, 
studied  for  a  minute  the  latest  stock  quota- 
tions from  South  Omaha  Market,  which  were 
pinned  on  the  wall  near  the  door.  Then  he 
was  not.    He  simply  had  vanished. 

What  passed  upon  Timberline's  arrival  in 
the  room  above,  who  were  there  about  the  green 
table,  —  these  things  may  develop  as  circum- 
stance wills.  Sufficient  to  indicate  that  a  board 
of  strategy  of  the  cattle  clan  received  certain 
information  from  the  lanky  cowman,  made  a 
quick  and  unanimous  decision  affecting  the 
next  move  in  the  deadly  struggle  for  the  range 
and  gave  Timberline  terse  instructions.  The 
latter  humble  retainer  partook  of  a  drink  of 
ceremony  —  a  survival  of  the  feudal  dispensa- 
tion of  salt  in  the  elder  day  of  knight  and  vil- 
lain —  then  faded.  A  word  to  Andy  Dorson 
back  in  the  Capitol's  bar  and  both  men  drifted 
out  on  to  the  street,  there  to  separate. 

The  remainder  of  that  afternoon  they  loafed 
around,  visited  certain  bars  where  hardy  riders 
in  from  the  range  congregated,  dropped  into 
this  and  that  feed  stable  where  newcomers  were 


88        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

uncinching  their  mounts.  But  as  Timberline  and 
Andy  Dorson  loafed  so  inconspicuously  they 
passed  a  word,  —  just  a  word  casually  spoken 
into  the  ear  of  this  man  known  to  be  true  and 
that  one  counted  daring.  The  word  was  car- 
ried with  lengthening  shadows  out  and  out 
across  purpling  prairies  to  where  cooks'  fires 
gleamed  in  the  falling  darkness,  signaling 
riders  in  from  the  ranges.  And  this  was  its 
substance  —  a  moving ;  there  would  be  a  sheep 
moving  on  Poison  Spider  that  night. 

Night  in  Two  Moons  was  joyous  for  Woolly 
Annie,  the  sheep  queen.  After  dining  gor- 
geously at  the  Rhinoceros  Eating  House, 
where  Phenie,  the  grateful  recipient  of  favors, 
paid  in  kind  with  an  extra  helping  of  saleratus 
biscuit  and  wild  honey,  the  mistress  of  the  Poi- 
son Spider  domain  hied  her  to  a  fair  given  by 
the  Ladies'  Loyal  Aid  of  the  First  Church  in 
Firemen's  Hall.  There  the  last  of  her  double 
eagles  took  prodigal  wings  over  the  fishpond, 
the  wheel  of  fortune  and  the  whatnot  booth. 
Woolly  Annie's  booming  laughter  shook  the 
festoons  of  starred  bunting  on  the  rafters; 
she  steered  elderly  gentlemen  of  her  acquaint- 
ance into  corners  to  retail  to  them  behind  a 
screening  hand  and  in  piercing  whispers  cer- 


Trails   to   Two    Moons        89 

tain  "hosses" —  a  hoss  being  a  Rabelaisian 
anecdote  scarcely  meet  for  a  church  affair; 
at  stated  intervals  she  withdrew  outside  the 
doors  to  have  a  chummy  smoke  with  herself. 
A  great  night  following  a  great  day! 

Far  out  and  away  from  Two  Moons  five 
horsemen  waited  under  the  starlight  at  a  con- 
vergence of  two  roads.  Two  others  came  rack- 
ing down  a  long  slope  from  the  north  and 
joined  them.  The  seven  set  their  mounts  to 
that  long  velvety  gallop  which  only  the  tough 
cutting  horse  of  the  Big  Country  knows  how 
to  sustain  over  unending  miles.  Where  the 
road  dropped  to  a  ford  of  the  Poison  Spider 
five  more  mounted  men  who  had  waited  in  the 
alder  thickets  spurred  out  and  took  their  places 
in  the  solid  core  of  moving  horseflesh  and  hu- 
man hate  that  skimmed  the  billowing  divides. 
No  word  was  passed.  No  man  sought  to  rec- 
ognize the  one  at  his  right  nor  the  one  at  his 
left  elbow.  From  leather  boots  hung  on  saddle 
horns  the  blunt  butts  of  rifles  protruded. 

Here  was  the  beginning  of  fulfillment  of  the 
word  that  had  passed  that  day.  There  was  to 
be  a  moving ;  sheep  were  to  be  moved  that  night. 

Now  the  narrow  ribbon  of  dust  that  was  a 
road  lay  far  behind  the  silent  riders  and  their 


go        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

horses'  hoofs  drummed  softly  on  the  unbroken 
turf.  Steadily,  steadily  the  land  mounted  up- 
ward toward  the  dim  rampart  of  the  Broken 
Horns,  a  high  black  dike  raised  against  the 
lesser  blackness  of  the  sky,  jagged  of  edge, 
seeming  to  menace  the  whole  star-sprinkled 
firmament  with  imprisonment.  Now  and  again 
a  gurgling  and  chuttering  of  waters  in  flight 
gave  tempo  to  the  monotone  of  the  thudding 
hoofs;  that  would  be  the  Poison  Spider  purling 
down  from  its  box  canon  in  the  mountains 
ahead.  A  coyote's  tremulous  bawling,  the 
rare  tom-tom  beat  of  some  owl  calling  out  of 
the  alders ;  these  were  the  only  other  noises. 

Mile  after  mile  through  the  night. 

A  rise  was  topped,  and  far  ahead  two  red 
spots  glowed  against  the  bulwark  of  the  moun- 
tains like  rubies  dropped  on  black  velvet ;  per- 
haps five  miles  separated  the  two  spots  of 
color.  At  sight  of  them  the  cavalcade  came  to 
a  halt.    A  leader's  voice  sounded. 

"  We  split  here.  Six  of  you  cross  the  creek 
and  make  for  that  fire  to  the  north.  Don't 
start  the  circus  'til  you  hear  us  tune  up  down 
at  the  south  camp.  If  any  thin'  on  two  legs 
puts  up  a  fight  kill  it,  but  don't  go  outa  your 
way  to  invite  any  indictments.     Remember, 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       91 

nobody  knows  nobody  else  if  it  comes  to  a 
court  case.     Now " 


The  band  split ;  one  half  splashed  across  the 
ford  and  bore  away  from  the  stream ;  the  other 
segment  followed  on  up  the  course  of  the  hid- 
den water. 

Miguez,  the  Basque  herder,  and  Tony,  a 
thirteen-year-old  waif  of  the  sheep  range,  had 
long  since  finished  their  suppers  before  the  fire 
and  the  man  had  gone  to  his  bunk  in  the  sheep 
wagon,  leaving  the  boy  with  the  sheep  dog  to 
keep  watch  over  the  band  of  eight  hundred 
bedded  down  in  a  cup  of  the  hills  below  the 
wagon.  The  boy  was  nodding,  head  on  knees ; 
the  dog,  curled  at  his  feet,  twitched  and  whim- 
pered over  the  high  places  in  a  doggy  dream. 

Suddenly  the  dog's  head  jerked  up  and  he 
gave  a  single  short  bark.  Somewhere  out  in 
the  darkness  there  was  a  swift  spit  of  red  flame, 
and  the  dog  sank,  twitching  and  slavering 
blood.  The  boy,  in  a  folly  of  terror,  turned 
and  was  climbing  the  short  flight  of  steps  giv- 
ing on  to  the  rear  door  in  the  bulky-sided  sheep 
wagon  when  there  was  a  swift  patter  of  hoofs 
behind  him;  a  hand  bore  down  and  snatched 
him  up  to  a  saddle. 

"  Keep    your    mouth    shut    or    you  '11    be 


92        Trails  to   Two   Moons 

croaked,"  commanded  a  harsh  voice.  Just  as 
a  handkerchief  was  fumbled  across  his  eyes  he 
saw  a  ring  of  horsemen  surround  the  sheep 
wagon  and  start  shooting  through  its  canvas 
sides;  saw  the  door  flung  open  and  Miguez 
stagger  out,  hands  high  above  his  head  and 
blood  on  his  shirt.  In  another  minute  he  was 
lying,  hogtied  from  neck  to  heels  and  blind- 
folded, and  he  knew  from  the  feeble  sound  of 
cursing  in  the  Basque  tongue  that  Miguez,  still 
alive,  was  lying  beside  him. 

The  riders  dismounted  and  threw  a  handful 
of  brush  on  to  the  dying  embers  of  the  cook 
fire;  then  as  red  arrows  began  to  flicker  up- 
ward, they  seized  the  tongue  of  the  sheep 
wagon  and  drew  that  cumbersome  house  on 
wheels  directly  over  the  blaze.  The  fire 
played  along  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  floor, 
licked  round  the  sides  arid  finally  caught  the 
canvas  housing.  A  wide  fiery  pillar  leaped 
upward,  lighting  all  the  little  cup  of  the  hills 
where  lay  the  sheep ;  their  huddled  gray  shapes 
were  cut  out  of  the  blackness  by  the  red  glow; 
the  clutter  of  woolly  backs  in  the  cup  of  the 
hills  stirred  restlessly  like  moving  scum  on  a 
bubbling  pot. 

The  mounting  pillar  of  flame  put  the  whole 


Trails  to   Two   Moons       93 

band  of  eight  hundred  at  the  mercy  of  the 
riders.  Swiftly  they  coursed  round  the  rim 
of  the  cup,  stationing  themselves  at  wide  in- 
tervals. Then,  at  an  opening  shot  from  their 
leader,  the  six  rode  slowly  down  on  to  the  sheep 
band,  each  emptying  the  magazine  of  his  rifle 
into  the  clotted  mass  as  he  descended. 

It  was  slaughter.  The  scum  of  woolly  bodies 
tossed  and  boiled  wildly,  rushing  from  side  to 
side  to  seek  escape  from  the  whiplashes  of  fire 
all  about.  Individuals  leaped  upon  the  backs  of 
their  fellows  and  hobbled  across  a  moving  pave- 
ment to  death.  A  few  scuttered  between 
horses'  legs  and  ran  bleating  into  the  circle  of 
the  dark.  The  silence  of  the  wide  places  under 
the  stars  was  shattered  by  a  horrid  hubbub  of 
blatting  and  bawling.  Inexorably  the  circle 
of  slaughterers  drew  smaller  and  the  piles  of 
bodies  in  the  bottom  of  the  depression  waxed 
higher.  Finally  it  became  dangerous  to  horse 
and  rider  for  any  man  to  shoot  longer,  and  the 
remnant  of  the  band  was  ridden  out  of  the 
charnel  pit  and  scattered  through  the  night 
with  wild  yip-yip-yips. 

Away  to  the  north  a  second  pillar  of  fire  was 
mounting  toward  the  stars,  and  volleys  of  rifle 
shots  came  faintly  on  the  wind. 


94       Trails  to   Two   Moons 

Dawn  came  marching  like  an  armed  man 
out  of  the  bad  lands  over  across  from  the 
Broken  Horns,  all  shell  pink  and  peach  flush 
in  its  glory.  The  new  sun  fell  upon  smolder- 
ing cinders  and  slaughter  shambles  there  in  the 
Big  Country's  pure  sweep. 

The  sheep  had  been  moved. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

That  moment  when  Original  Bill  surprised 
the  outlaw  from  Teapot  Spout  in  his  struggle 
to  impose  rough  mastery  upon  the  girl  Hilma 
was  typical  of  the  sharp  movements  of  climax 
the  genius  of  the  Big  Country  delights  to  visit 
upon  the  puppet  actors  in  the  broad  sweep  of 
her  comedy.  Hot  love  is  suddenly  confronted 
by  bitter  hate ;  in  the  winking  of  an  eye  a  man's 
little  moment  of  ecstasy  is  transformed  into 
one  of  violence,  trembling  upon  the  pull  of  a 
trigger  finger.  And  the  genius  of  the  Big 
Country,  having  wrought  thus,  veils  a  laugh 
with  the  sleeve  of  her  garment. 

Hilma  was  the  first  of  the  twain  the  range 
inspector  interrupted  to  coordinate  impulse 
and  action.  Even  as  Zang  Whistler's  hand 
dropped  to  his  holster  she  leaped  in  front  of 
him,  attempting  to  sweep  him  behind  her  with 
a  powerful  backward  stroke  of  her  arm.  The 
movement  was  purely  protective,  yet  the  in- 


96        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

stant  before  Original  Bill's  appearance  the  girl 
had  been  tigerish  in  her  wrath  against  this  man 
whose  body  she  now  screened  against  the  ex- 
pected bullet.  Again  the  lounging  figure 
against  the  doorpost  permitted  his  lips  to 
widen  in  silent  laughter. 

"  Of  course,  Zang,"  he  drawled,  "  the  young 
lady's  cuttin'  into  the  game  this  way  sorta  puts 
you  in  a  hole.  You  don't  rightly  feel  like 
shootin'  your  way  out  from  behind  a  woman, 
an'  I  admire  your  gentlemanly  instincts." 

No  weapon  had  appeared  in  Original's 
hands;  none  even  showed  on  his  person.  But 
he  carried  his  right  hand  clinging  loosely  to 
the  opened  lapel  of  his  jacket  over  his  left 
breast.  The  range  inspector  had  been  the  first 
to  introduce  into  the  Big  Country  the  fashion 
of  carrying  a  .45  on  a  flat  spring  holster  hung 
from  the  shoulder  beneath  the  jacket  and  di- 
rectly over  the  heart;  while  in  the  holster  the 
weapon  had  a  protective  value  against  a  speed- 
ing bullet;  it  could  leap  out  a  sixteenth  of  a 
second  quicker  than  one  drawn  from  the  hip. 
Original,  too,  had  perfected  through  long  and 
stern  practice  the  somewhat  delicate  mastery 
of  hammer  firing  —  that  is,  the  trigger  of  the 
gun  was  ignored  and  a  lightning  movement 


Trails   to   Two   Moons        97 

of  the  thumb  drew  back  and  released  the  strik- 
ing hammer  even  as  the  weapon  was  being 
withdrawn  and  leveled. 

There  had  been  but  one  man  in  all  the  range 
country  between  the  Broken  Horns  and  the 
Black  Hills  who  was  quicker  on  the  draw  than 
Original  Bill,  but  a  straight  white  line  running 
through  the  latter's  raven  hair  an  inch  or  so 
above  the  left  ear  bore  testimony  to  the  fact 
that  once  this  superior  master's  aim  had  been  a 
shade  off  true.  One  such  error  was  all  Fate 
allotted  him. 

At  Original's  taunting  words  Zang's  lips 
curled  into  an  animal  snarl,  and  he  tried  to 
push  the  girl  from  him.  His  gun  was  cocked 
in  his  hand.  Still  Original's  right  hung  loosely 
from  his  jacket's  lapel;  still  he  smiled  teas- 
ingly. 

"  Put  her  up,  Zang,"  he  commanded  in  a 
casual  tone.  "  It 's  plain  as  a  dry  trail  you 
can't  shoot  your  way  outa  this  jack  pot  —  least- 
ways not  with  the  lady  exhibitin'  her  loving 
kindness  like  she  does.  I  'd  admire  for  to 
have  you  alone  over  a  top  sight,  Zang,  but  you 
can  see  for  yourself  I  have  to  take  you  as  I 
find  you." 

Hilma  flamed  fiery  red  as  she  appreciated 


98        Trails   to   Two   Moons 

the  sense  of  Original's  blunt  innuendo  of  cow- 
ardice leveled  at  Zang,  but  still  some  protective 
instinct  stronger  than  her  wrath  forced  her  to 
continue  to  stave  off  the  inevitable  deadly 
speaking  of  the  guns  which  she  could  loose  any 
instant  by  retreating  from  her  doggedly  held 
place  in  front  of  Whistler. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here?  "  she  mastered 
herself  sufficiently  to  demand  in  a  voice  chok- 
ing with  rage.  "  What  do  you  want  this  time?  " 

"  Nothing  very  much,  lady,"  Original  an- 
swered, with  his  unwavering  smile.  "  Name  's 
Zang  Whistler,  the  same  which  is  mentioned 
plenty  an'  various  in  grand- jury  indictments 
found  down  to  the  court  in  Two  Moons  ever 
since  there  was  a  court.  Grand  larceny  's  the 
brand  I  think  those  grand  juries  've  hung  on 
to  Zang." 

Whistler  put  in  a  word.  He  had  fully  re- 
gained his  customary  poise  of  easy  confidence. 
He  consciously  matched  his  tone  with  Orig- 
inal's soft  drawl: 

"  Figure  to  take  me  to  jail,  Original? " 

"  That 's  my  aim,  Zang.  Soon  's  I  saw  the 
prints  of  your  little  hoss  round  here  t'other 
day  I  reckoned  here  was  an  easier  place  to  get 
you  than  over  in  the  Spout." 


Trails   to   Two    Moons        99 

"  Did  n't  have  no  hunger  for  comin'  into 
the  Spout  after  me,  Original?  "  Zang  laughed 
shortly. 

"  I  never  match  up  against  forty,  Zang, 
when  I  can  find  a  way  to  match  up  with  one 
—  or  even  two."  Original  sent  a  quick  flash 
of  his  teeth  Hilma's  way. 

With  all  his  pose  of  indolent  ease  there 
against  the  doorpost,  Original's  black  eyes 
never  left  the  figures  of  the  two  confronting 
him  ten  feet  away.  Though  the  girl's  shoulders 
partially  screened  Whistler's  body,  and  the 
broad  flare  of  her  blue  skirt  hid  one  of  his  legs, 
one  booted  foot  was  visible  beyond  the  hem  of 
her  gown.  Original's  quick  eye  caught  a  move- 
ment of  this  foot;  the  toe  lifted  ever  so  little 
and  sidled  outward. 

"  Figure  to  take  me  in  alive,  a'  course,  Orig- 
inal." Zang  spoke  the  words  softly,  almost  in 
a  croon,  and  the  groping  toe  moved  outward 
still  farther. 

"  Alive  'd  be  much  better,  Zang,"  Original 
vouchsafed  carelessly. 

'  Well,"  from  the  outlaw,  "  I  reckon  may- 
be   "    He  leaped  then,  quick  as  a  timber 

gray,  back  and  away  from  the  figure  of  the 
girl.     Two  shots  sounded  as  one.     The  wide 


ioo      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

brim  of  Original's  high-crowned  beaver  hat 
suddenly  dropped  before  his  eyes,  cut  clean 
away  from  the  crown.  As  he  gave  a  great 
bound  forward  Original  shook  the  obscuring 
hat  from  his  head. 

Zang  was  staggering  backward,  striving 
mightily  to  twist  the  hand  which  held  his  re- 
volver up  to  a  shooting  position.  Something 
white  and  glistening  showed  against  the  back 
of  that  hand;  it  was  a  bone  splinter  pushed 
through  the  hole  a  bullet  had  drilled. 

Hilma  screamed  shrilly  and  threw  out  her 
arms  to  seize  Original  in  his  meteor  plunge 
toward  her  companion.  He  slipped  under  one 
arm  and  closed  with  the  outlaw  just  as  the  lat- 
ter's  gun  was  being  transferred  to  his  sound 
hand.  The  impact  of  the  range  inspector's 
one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of  bone  and 
muscle  sent  Zang  spinning  back  against  the 
wall.  Even  as  his  back  crashed  on  the  logs  a 
band  of  steel  circled  his  right  wrist  with  a 
vicious  snap.  He  felt  his  antagonist's  hand 
crawling  up  his  left  arm  to  drag  it  down  to 
imprisonment. 

Original,  sure  of  his  man,  had  dropped 
his  .45  in  a  side  pocket  as  he  cleared  the  space 
between   them.     When   first   he   closed   with 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      101 

Zang  he  had  shaken  the  gun  out  of  the  latter's 
paralyzed  grip  and  spurned  it  out  of  reach 
with  his  foot.  But  the  quick  flux  of  action  had 
prevented  his  mind  from  encompassing  all  the 
angles  of  the  situation;  his  interest,  centered 
wholly  on  the  man,  had  overlooked  the  woman. 
As,  head  to  breast,  he  jammed  Whistler 
against  the  wall  Original  caught  from  the  tail 
of  his  eye  Hilma's  swift  bound  for  the  weapon 
he  thought  he  had  rendered  useless. 

He  saw  her  stoop  and  straighten  with  the 
thing  in  her  hand  just  as  Whistler,  bracing  one 
foot  against  the  log  wall  behind  him,  gave  a 
mighty  heave  forward.  Even  as  their  two 
bodies  lurched  outward  Original  pivoted  on 
one  heel  and  swung  his  opponent's  body  be- 
tween himself  and  the  rising  weapon. 

"  Get  him,  girl!  "  Zang  screamed  in  a  whis- 
tling breath.  But  Hilma,  finding  herself  in 
danger  of  being  caught  in  the  angle  between 
the  projecting  fireplace  and  the  back  wall, 
twisted  to  escape  and  tripped  over  one  of 
Zang's  flailing  legs.  Before  she  could  recover 
herself  Original  seized  the  instant's  opportu- 
nity and,  half  lifting  Zang  with  a  tremendous 
heave  of  his  shoulders,  jammed  him  back 
against  the  girl  in  the  trap  of  solid  stone  and 


102      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

logs.  He  heard  her  breath  come  in  a  half  sob 
of  anguish. 

Zang,  sensing  instantly  the  advantage 
Original's  strategy  had  turned,  summoned 
every  ounce  of  his  strength  to  push  out  from 
the  trap  and  free  his  ally.  But  a  sharp  catch- 
ing of  breath  in  his  ear  told  him  his  effort  was 
only  crushing  Hilma  the  more.  He  tried  to 
edge  to  one  side,  leaving  her  a  hole  to  slip 
through. 

Original  forestalled  him  by  a  second  terrific 
drive  of  his  shoulder  into  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
Zang  lifted  his  wounded  right  hand,  from 
whose  wrist  dangled  the  ugly  unfilled  mate  of 
the  wristlet  of  steel  biting  into  the  flesh,  then 
he  flailed  the  cuff  down  on  the  black  head  be- 
neath his  chin.  The  blow  landed  true.  For 
just  an  instant  the  pressure  of  determined 
muscle  against  his  body  slackened. 

That  instant  Zang  seized  to  twist  eel-like 
out  of  the  cul-de-sac  of  the  chimney  corner, 
though  he  could  not  shake  Original's  grip  from 
him.  Hilma,  freed,  leaped  past  the  struggling 
men  and  again  brought  up  the  point  of  her 
weapon  to  slay. 

But  a  rally  by  Original  brought  Whistler's 
body  whirling  round  as  a  shield  against  a  bul- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      103 

let.  White  fear  sent  a  spasm  over  the  latter's 
features  as  he  felt  a  snubbed  point  of  steel 
against  the  small  of  his  back. 

"  Give  him  the  butt,"  he  panted  hoarsely. 
"  Don't  —  try  —  to  shoot!  " 

Then  he  bent  his  head  to  whisper  brokenly 
into  the  ear  just  below  his  chin: 

"  Better  quit !     She  '11  kill  —  I  —  won't." 

Just  a  flash  of  Original's  teeth  bared  in  a 
grin  as  his  head  came  up  and  one  of  his  legs 
suddenly  curled  round  below  Zang's  knees. 
Back  they  went  against  the  heavy  table  just 
as  the  clubbed  gun  in  Hilma's  hands  came 
swinging  down  upon  Zang's  shoulder  instead 
of  on  the  black  head  which  had  dodged  less 
than  an  inch.  The  table  teetered  for  an  in- 
stant, then  crashed  over,  and  the  three  of  them 
sprawled  in  a  fighting,  tumbling  heap  on  the 
floor. 

"I  said  alive  was  better  'n  dead,"  Original 
grunted  as  they  rolled  in  a  deadly  lock.  Zang 
felt  his  left  arm  being  inexorably  warped 
away  from  its  grip  round  Original's  neck;  his 
right,  with  the  waiting  cuff  on  the  wrist,  was 
almost  useless  because  of  the  numbing  wound 
through  the  palm.  A  sickening  fear  began  to 
sweep  over  the  outlaw ;  that  bit  of  steel  around 


1 04      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

the  wrist  suddenly  appeared  symbolical ;  it  was 
the  steel  that  locked  against  liberty. 

Hilma,  now  on  her  feet  and  with  the  clubbed 
revolver  in  her  hand,  followed,  stooping,  the 
course  of  the  writhing  men  on  the  floor.  Her 
lips  were  drawn  back  over  feline  teeth,  her 
blue-black  eyes  were  narrowed  by  hard-drawn 
lids  into  the  eyes  of  a  hunting  panther.  The 
will  to  slay  possessed  her  wholly.  For  an  in- 
stant a  tousled  black  head  was  uppermost* 
She  smote  it  hard  with  the  heavy  revolver  butt 
—  smote  again,  yet  once  again. 

A  metallic  click,  a  long  sigh  and  the  shape 
of  what  had  been  a  fighting  one  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds  of  virile,  tricky  thews  and  springs 
of  tempered  steel  lay  sprawled  inert,  nerve- 
less. Zang  Whistler,  very  white  and  shaking, 
slowly  rose  from  the  floor.  His  hands,  held 
ashamedly  at  arm's  length,  were  linked  to- 
gether by  steel  bands  on  a  short  steel  chain. 

Hilma's  eyes  were  not  for  him.  They  were 
fixed  upon  the  prone  figure  of  Original  Bill 
and  the  glint  of  pantherlike  ferocity  in  them 
was  undimmed.  Zang's  gun  she  had  turned 
with  the  butt  firm  in  her  right  hand;  her  left 
thumb  was  slowly  pushing  up  the  hammer. 

The  outlaw  saw  the  movement  of  that  thumb. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      105 

Swiftly  he  stooped  to  where  the  girl  sat  back 
on  her  heels  near  the  helpless  head  and  his 
manacled  hands  swooped  down  to  seize  and 
wrest  the  weapon  from  her.  She  leaped  to  her 
feet,  eyes  blazing.  The  man's  eyes,  meeting 
her  unspoken  challenge,  were  filled  with  min- 
gled wonder  and  abhorrence. 

"  In  this  country,"  he  said  slowly,  "  folks 
don't  shoot  a  man  when  he  's  helpless  —  least 
of  all  women  folks  don't.  That 's  counted 
murder." 

11 1  hate  him  —  I  hate  him!  "  Hilma  gritted 
through  clenched  teeth.  "  Him  and  his  whole 
tribe  of  swaggering,  robbing  cowmen.  Why 
should  n't  I  shoot  him?  "  Zang  nodded  to  the 
wounded  hand  with  the  white  sliver  of  bone 
protruding  from  a  round  hole. 

"  You  see  what  he  did  to  me,"  he  said  sim- 
ply. "  When  a  man  quick  and  surefire  as  he  is 
might 's  well  have  put  that  hole  through  the 
middle  of  my  forehead.  He  gives  me  this 
when  I  —  when  I  was  shootin'  —  to  kill.  In 
this  country  that  kind  of  a  thing 's  called 
white — plumb  white." 

A  slow  flush  began  to  creep  above  the  line 
of  the  blue  frock  at  Hilma's  throat ;  it  colored 
her  round  neck  and  hung  a  flag  of  shame  upon 


106      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

each  cheek.  She  turned  abruptly  and  went  to 
the  far  corner  of  the  room  where  she  splashed 
water  from  a  pail  into  a  basin  and  busied  her- 
self tearing  several  strips  from  an  old  apron 
hanging  on  a  nail.  When  she  returned  she 
found  Zang  on  his  knees  beside  the  figure  of 
their  enemy. 

"  He  '11  come  round,  I  reckon,"  the  man 
said.  "  Nobody  who  's  been  all  whittled  up 
in  gun  plays  like  Original  Bill 's  goin'  to  take 
his  checks  to  the  bank  just  because  of  a  couple 
of  wallops  on  the  coco  from  a  gun  butt.  Here, 
I  located  this  in  one  of  his  pockets.  Tie  me 
loose,  will  you?  " 

Zang  held  up  a  small  key.  Hilma  had  to 
stand  very  close  to  him  to  manipulate  the  locks 
on  the  handcuffs.  Her  bent  head  of  glorious 
gold  and  the  warm,  reflected  golden  tints  from 
the  round  of  her  neck  were  just  below  the 
man's  ravening  eyes.  A  suave,  indefinable 
odor  —  the  odor  of  warm  flesh  and  of  vigorous 
masses  of  hair  —  was  in  his  nostrils.  When 
the  grip  of  steel  finally  was  loosed  from  his 
wrists  he  instantly  joined  the  freed  hands  about 
the  girl's  waist  and  drew  her  to  him.  She  did 
not  resist.  In  truth  reaction  from  recent  stress 
made  her  all  the  more  apathetic,  and  she  was 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      107 

engulfed  of  a  sudden  by  a  vague  yearning 
for  something,  somebody  to  lift  her  out  of  her- 
self, to  carry  her  off  her  feet  so  lately  set  in  a 
path  of  blind  passion. 

Zang  misread  her  yielding  for  something 
that  was  not.  He  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek,  on  the  soft  curve  of  her  neck.  Hilma 
flinched  but  did  not  draw  away;  nor  did  the 
man's  hot  caresses  rouse  in  her  any  answering 
emotion.  She  accepted  them  because  she  did 
not  have  the  will  to  resist  any  event  of  the 
moment. 

"  Now,  Hilma,"  Zang  was  saying  in  a 
choked  voice,  as  the  girl  automatically  bathed 
his  wounded  hand  from  the  basin  set  on  the 
righted  table  — "  now,  Hilma  girl,  there  's 
nothin'  left  but  for  you  to  come  back  to  the 
Spout  with  me.  Here  's  Original;  all  he  's  got 
to  do  is  to  go  back  to  Two  Moons  an'  swear 
out  a  warrant  for  you  an'  a  fresh  one  agin  me 
—  assault  with  a  deadly  weapon.  All  alone 
here,  you  '11  be  caught  an'  sent  to  do  a  term 
down  to  Rawlins.  In  the  Spout  Original  nor 
any  posse  he  \s  a  mind  to  raise  can't  get  you." 

The  girl  steadily  drained  water  over  the  red 
hole  in  the  hand  she  held  over  the  basin.  She 
answered  nothing. 


108      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"  Don't  you  see,  girl,  you  're  outlawed  now 
—  just  like  Zang  Whistler?  "  the  man  urged. 
"  What  they  call  law  in  this  country  '11  be  agin 
you  from  now  until  you  're  caught.  An'  this 
man  here,  this  Original  Bill 's  a  mighty  bad 
hombre  to  have  campin'  on  your  trail.  I  '11 
say  that  for  him  because  I  know.  He  's  a 
wolf  for  trailing  an'  trailing  an'  never  letting 
go.  Over  in  the  Spout  I  can  give  you  protec- 
tion an'  —  an',  yes,  Hilma  girl,  I  can  give  you 
love.  A  clean  love,  Hilma,  like  what  a  man 
oughta  give  a  woman.  What  do  you  say, 
Hilma? " 

She  had  bound  two  lengths  of  gingham  dfoout 
the  injured  hand  and  deftly  anchored  them  in 
place  with  a  needle  and  thread  before  she 
made  answer. 

"  If  you  want  me  on  my  terms,  Zang,  I  '11 
go  with  you."  The  outlaw's  eyes  lighted  and 
he  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"  What 's  the  contract,  little  woman?  " 

"  You  '11  hear  that  after  we  get  to  the 
Spout,"  the  girl  said  evenly. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Hilma  Ring,  on  the 
back  of  her  father's  drab  little  horse,  Chris- 
tian, was  riding  with  Zang  Whistler  toward  the 
distant  notch  in  the  Broken  Horns  which  rep- 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      109 

resented  the  tortuous  entrance  into  that  se- 
cret valley  of  the  outlaws  called  the  Teapot 
Spout.  Hung  across  her  saddle  bow  was  a  blue 
gingham  apron  knotted  about  a  small  bundle 
of  clothing  and  the  tin  box  containing  her 
father's  sheep  books,  three  dollars  and  forty- 
five  cents  in  silver  and  a  photograph  of  a  young 
man  and  his  bride  who  had  looked  upon  a  road 
to  happiness  many  years  back. 

Original  Bill  Blunt  lay  still  unconscious  on 
the  floor  of  the  deserted  cabin  while  his  little 
horse  Tige  whinnied  and  pawed  the  ground 
impatiently  in  the  dooryard. 


CHAPTER   IX 

The  sun  was  canting  down  toward  the  dike 
of  the  mountains  when  Original  Bill  returned 
to  consciousness.  It  was  not  a  comfortable 
transition;  the  beat  of  a  thousand  Sioux  war 
drums  was  pulsing  through  his  head.  His 
whole  body  seemed  a  thing  apart,  beyond  his 
power  to  order.  His  opening  eyes  gazed  upon 
a  roughly  beamed  and  strange  roof  which  had 
a  way  of  expanding  and  contracting  in  defiance 
of  all  experience  governing  the  behavior  of 
roofs. 

When  he  essayed  to  sit  up  there  was  a  metal- 
lic clatter  under  him;  a  pair  of  handcuffs  had 
slipped  from  his  chest,  where  they  lay,  to  the 
floor.  The  bright  metal  served  to  bridge  the 
gulf  of  darkness  whence  the  man  was  emerg- 
ing. He  recalled  the  fight,  —  two  against  one ; 
his  desperate  twistings  and  turnings  with  a 
human  shield  held  before  him  to  receive  the  ex- 
pected bullet.    Original's  hand  stole  to  the  hoi- 


Trails   to    Two   Moons      1 1 1 

ster  over  his  heart ;  a  shock  of  surprise  came  to 
him  when  he  found  his  .45  reposing  snugly 
under  its  spring. 

The  weapon  had  been  in  his  pocket  when  he 
came  to  grips  with  Zang  Whistler.  The  out- 
law's act  of  restoring  the  gun  to  its  place  rather 
than  confiscating  it  as  a  prize  of  war  was  a 
graceful  courtesy  not  lost  on  Original.  After 
all,  had  not  he  and  Zang  Whistler  ridden  trail 
together  through  hot  sun  and  thunderstorm 
back  in  the  old  days  before  Zang  took  to  carry- 
ing a  running  iron,  before  he  was  blackballed 
as  a  brand  smoker?  This  incident  of  the  gun 
remaining  inviolate  was  but  a  touch  of  that 
chivalry  of  the  cattle  clan  which  made  Zang 
Whistler  and  Original  Bill  Blunt  kin  despite 
the  private  warfare  between  them. 

As  for  the  girl  Hilma  —  that  blond-haired 
mountain  cat  who  had  pounded  him  into  in- 
sensibility when  she  found  shooting  impossible 
—  the  range  inspector's  brain  was  still  too 
clouded  to  grapple  with  this  complexity  in  the 
situation. 

He  helped  himself  to  his  feet  by  a  grip  on  the 
table  edge,  staggered  to  the  water  pail  and 
plunged  his  burning  head  into  its  cold  depths. 
Strength  came  rushing  back  to  him  with  the 


112      Trails   to    Two    Moons 

dissolving  of  the  last  cobwebs  of  unconscious- 
ness. He  heard  a  yearning  whinny  and  went 
to  the  opened  door.  Tige,  his  loyal  little  horse, 
companion  of  a  thousand  days  and  nights  in 
the  vastness  of  the  Big  Country,  came  trotting 
up,  bridle  dragging,  to  nuzzle  under  his  mas- 
ter's arm  and  express  through  inarticulate 
burblings  and  squeakings  all  the  horsy  fear 
phantoms  he  had  undergone. 

Here  again  was  a  white  man's  restraint  on 
the  part  of  Zang  Whistler,  Original  reflected. 
The  outlaw  might  have  taken  Tige  as  booty  of 
successful  combat  and  left  his  owner  here  afoot 
in  the  wilderness. 

It  took  but  a  cursory  survey  of  the  interior 
of  the  cabin  to  tell  the  story  of  what  had  fol- 
lowed the  conclusion  of  the  fight.  Here  the 
basin  filled  with  reddened  water  and  with 
scraps  of  rags  lying  near;  there  the  blue  zinc 
trunk,  cover  thrown  back  and  contents  tum- 
bled. 

So  the  girl  had  ridden  off  with  Zang? 
Well 

As  he  cantered  through  the  purpling  twi- 
light on  the  long  road  back  to  Two  Moons 
Original  let  his  thoughts  idly  dally  round  a 
head  crowned  with  dandelion  gold  and  eyes  the 


Trails   to    Two    Moons       113 

color  of  deep  mountain  ice  in  shadows.  Here,  he 
reflected,  was  a  girl  the  like  of  whom  his  lim- 
ited experience  with  women  never  had  shown 
him;  here,  too,  an  enemy  such  as  he  had  never 
known. 

The  women  of  the  Big  Country  —  and  they 
were  not  many  —  pretty  generally  fell  into 
two  classes:  the  colorless,  work-worn  women 
of  the  homesteads  who  came  to  town  semi- 
annually, perched  on  the  hard  seats  of  farm 
wagons  and  whose  listless  eyes  seemed  never 
to  see  over  the  edge  of  a  precious  dollar;  and 
those  other  women  of  the  towns  who  wore  red 
slippers  in  the  daytime  and  played  the  piano 
o'  nights.  Neither  class  ever  had  touched  Orig- 
inal even  remotely. 

But  this  Hilma  Ring  —  this  woman  of  sur- 
passing beauty  and  the  temper  of  a  female 
lynx  —  what  was  there  about  her  that  sent  a 
call  deep  into  the  primitive  soul  of  a  man?  Or, 
as  Original  phrased  it,  "  put  the  brand  on  a 
man." 

Twice  he  had  encountered  her.  On  the  first 
occasion  smoldering  hostility  on  her  part  had 
flared  into  quick  anger;  she  had  deliberately 
shot  at  him.  Then  this  second  vivid  experience 
when  he  had  found  her  at  the  battle  pitch  of 


ii4      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

a  she-grizzly  with  cubs,  furiously  lashing  out 
with  Zang's  gun,  ready  to  kill,  insensate  with 
the  lust  to  kill.  He,  Original,  had  been  forced 
to  manhandle  her  in  that  battle  back  in  the 
cabin  to  save  his  own  life,  yet  in  the  height  of 
conflict  he  had  felt  that  strange  call  coming 
from  the  girl,  that  lure  of  the  unconquered 
female. 

Though  Original  was  as  innocent  of  femi- 
nine psychology  as  his  horse  Tige,  somehow  he 
sensed  through  instinct  rather  than  deduced 
from  reason  that  for  the  man  who  could  conquer 
this  tiger  woman  —  break  her  as  an  outlawed 
horse  is  broken  —  triumph  would  be  sweetened 
by  a  tremendous  rushing  from  a  wellspring  of 
love. 

Was  Zang  Whistler  that  woman  breaker? 
The  hazard  that  he  might  be  sent  a  quick  stab 
of  jealousy  to  the  range  rider's  heart.  Why,  he 
did  not  know. 

"  He  sure  is  plumb  welcome  to  her,  Tige,  if 
he  can  get  her,"  Original  tried  to  reassure  him- 
self in  communion  with  the  only  confidant  he 
had  ever  admitted  to  his  heart's  secrets.  "  But 
that  kiss  I  busted  into  was  n't  comin'  any  too 
easy.  She  'd  creased  that  Zang  fella  from  fore- 
lock to  chin  strap,  an5  it 's  a  fair  bet  she  'd  bit 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      115 

him  if  I  had  n't  taken  a  hand  into  the  game." 
So  Original  Bill  jogged  on  through  the  vel- 
vety dark  toward  Two  Moons,  and  just  be- 
yond his  saddle  horn  floated  a  dim  vision  of  a 
girl  with  an  aureole  of  yellow  gold  framing 
unconquered  eyes  that  blazed  hate. 

Hours  before  the  first  light  of  the  town 
glimmered  over  the  top  of  the  last  rolling  di- 
vide, resolution  had  taken  firm  root  in  the 
breast  of  the  range  inspector.  He  was  going 
to  meet  up  with  this  fighting  daughter  of  the 
Vikings  once  more.  If  she  had  retreated  to  the 
Spout  with  Zang  Whistler,  all  right;  into  the 
Spout  he  would  ride,  come  one  come  forty,  and 
he  would  bring  out  with  him  Hilma  Ring  and 
Whistler.  The  girl  and  her  lover  had  won  the 
first  pot,  Original  grimly  reflected,  but  there 
would  still  be  another  deal.  It  was  not  easy 
for  one  of  Original's  caliber  to  admit  defeat; 
the  very  quick  of  his  soul  was  galled  by  the 
outlaw's  escape  from  a  trap  the  range  inspec- 
tor had  patiently  spread  for  the  head  of  the 
Teapot  Spout  gang  of  herd  raiders.  But 
deeper  still  rankled  the  thought  that  it  had 
been  a  woman's  hand  that  foiled  the  springing 
of  this  trap,  that  a  woman  had  stretched  him 
insensible  when  for  long  years  no  hand  of  man 


ii6      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

had  been  quick  or  cunning  enough  to  achieve 
that  end. 

"  Tige,  little  hoss,  you  hear  me  make  my 
brag.  Day  's  coming  when  you  '11  carry  double, 
an'  that  young  she-wolf  '11  be  right  here  'long- 
side  my  saddle  horn,  spirit  broke  an5  tame  as 
a  pet  squirrel.  Either  that,  Tige  hoss,  or  you  '11 
have  another  rider." 

Sioux  Pass  is  the  single  gateway  through 
the  Broken  Horns  from  the  range  country  of 
the  east  into  the  high-basin  country  lying  in 
the  lap  of  three  mountain  ranges  and  caught 
up  on  its  westernmost  slopes  to  the  very  ridge- 
pole of  the  continent.  At  the  time  this  story 
tells  itself  the  Basin  had  not  yet  come  under 
even  the  shadowy  reign  of  law  that  boasted 
dominion  over  the  Big  Country  to  the  east  of 
the  Broken  Horns;  it  was  a  No  Man's  Land 
where  the  trapper  and  the  elk  killer  occasion- 
ally crossed  the  trail  of  a  prospector;  no 
train  whistle  broke  the  stillness  of  the  high 
places.  Into  this  wilderness  the  old  outlaw  trail 
from  Montana  to  Mexico  loses  itself  before 
venturing  out  to  skirt  Utah's  Bed  Desert  and 
follow  the  Colorado  River  to  Nogales  and  the 
Line.  Over  this  trail  once  rode  Harvey  and 
Loney  Logan,  the  slayers  of  Old  Man  Lan- 


Trails  to  Two  Moons       117 

dusky;  its  dim  traceries  through  the  aisles  of 
the  forest  knew  the  lurking  figure  of  Sluefoot 
Thompson,  outlaw  and  train  robber,  before  he 
lost  his  head  down  near  Vernal,  Utah.  A  par- 
adise of  hunted  men  was  the  Basin;  its  outpost 
and  strongest  citadel  was  Teapot  Spout,  just 
east  of  where  Sioux  Pass  gives  on  to  the  rolling 
billows  of  the  Big  Country. 

The  Pass  trail  is  a  water-hewn  alley  gouged 
through  the  reluctant  granite.  For  miles  its 
tortuous  way  curves  and  twists  about  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  mountains,  dipping  into  box  canons 
where  purple  shadows  clot  even  at  the  sun's 
meridian,  rising  steeply  to  skirt  the  precarious 
brinks  of  gorges  which  roar  with  the  diapason 
of  hidden  water.  Then  the  trail  launches  its 
culminating  surprise.  Suddenly  the  heavy  cur- 
tains of  the  hills  are  parted,  and  the  wayfarer 
stands  upon  the  very  proscenium  of  the  Big 
Country  displayed  in  its  entirety. 

A  world  of  crystal  light  stretching  out  and 
out  to  unmeasured  distances ;  light  that  is  flaw- 
less and  sparkling  as  a  quartz  spear;  light 
which  seems  to  carry  a  taste  like  water  from 
a  mountain  spring.  As  Noah  looked  upon  a 
clean,  washed  world  so  the  rider  on  the  high 
bib  of  the  Pass's  exit  sees  a  universe  untar- 


n8      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

nished,  virginal  in  its  fleckless  beauty.  Clean 
as  the  sea  —  like  a  sea  caught  and  frozen  in 
agitation  —  in  this  billowy  infinity  of  brown 
and  tawny  and  cinnabar  red.  Away  and  away, 
more  than  a  hundred  miles  as  man  measures 
them,  lie  the  purple  headlands  of  the  Black 
Hills.  In  nearer  distance,  yet  two  days'  riding, 
the  broken  thumbs  of  Pumpkin  Buttes  push 
up  from  a  saline  desert;  the  telescopic  atmos- 
phere brings  their  serrated  flanks  into  high 
relief;  you  see  the  runnels  of  winter's  torrents 
traced  in  longitudes  from  blunt  crown  to 
spreading  base  of  each  butte.  For  the  rest, 
north  and  south  and  east,  just  wave  upon  wave 
of  grassed  land,  burned  the  color  of  a  panther's 
coat  by  summer  sun.  Where  the  waves  break 
into  higher  crests  stretch  lines  of  mesas,  wind 
sculptured  into  fantastic  cathedral  columns. 
Meandering  stream  courses  are  threads  of 
burnished  silver  wire,  intermeshed,  looped  one 
within  the  other  to  make  a  broader  strand, 
which  is  Powder  River. 

A  clean  world,  a  sweet  world  that  Big  Coun- 
try!  But  on  this  day  in  June  —  the  day  when 
Zang  Whistler  and  Hilma  Ring  rode  together 
toward  the  Teapot  Spout  —  somewhere  in 
those  interminable  folds  of  warm  brown  earth 


Trails   to   Two   Moons       119 

man  was  soiling  the  wilderness.  Near  two 
spots  of  smoldering  embers  the  earth  was  drink- 
ing up  the  blood  of  slaughtered  sheep.  Here 
and  there  on  the  illimitable  sweep  other  blood 
spots  marked  the  slaying  of  men  from  ambush. 
Because  one  clan  of  men,  the  pioneers  in  this 
clean  land,  who  had  come  with  their  herds  of 
longhorns  from  the  South  to  fatten  them  on 
the  free  bounty  of  Nature  and  glean  an  easy 
increment  of  wealth,  now  found  their  Eden 
disputed  by  a  second  wave  of  adventurers, 
rank  growths  of  hate  were  springing  from  the 
soil  of  the  Big  Country.  Because  the  squatter 
and  homesteader  strung  his  webs  of  barbed 
wire  —  killer  of  man  and  beast  in  the  night 
stampede  —  round  precious  water  holes  and 
along  fat  river  bottoms,  and  because  the  pos- 
sessors of  sheep  bands  demanded  their  share 
of  the  range  bounties,  now  the  day  of  violence, 
of  reprisals  and  resistance  was  come  to  blacken 
what  the  world's  first  day  had  left  clean  and 
unsullied. 

The  sun  was  westering  when  Uncle  Alf ,  the 
evangelist,  rode  out  from  the  dim  sack  of  the 
Pass  and  drew  rein  on  this  shelf  above  the  Big 
Country.  The  self-appointed  scourge  of  God 
had  been  coursing  the  wilderness  of  the  Basin, 


120      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

halting  wherever  a  handful  of  men  had  gath- 
ered together  in  a  settlement  to  preach  his 
doctrine  of  twelfth-hour  repentance  on  the  im- 
minence of  a  judgment  day  of  bitter  penalties. 
Also  he  had  sounded  his  new  bugle  note  of 
crusade  against  the  Philistines  of  the  cattle 
clan.  He  had  ranged  the  forested  tangle  of 
the  Basin,  summoning  its  silent  men,  its  hunted 
men,  to  cross  the  mountains  with  him  and  join 
a  new  Joshua's  host  which  he  would  raise 
against  the  oppressors  of  the  weak.  On  both 
counts  his  mission  had  failed  to  bear  fruit. 
Dwellers  in  the  Basin  knew  no  distinction  be- 
tween cattlemen  and  sheepmen,  hated  them 
both  because  their  coming  inevitably  spelt  the 
peopling  of  the  wilderness  and  the  destruction 
of  a  solitude  which  asked  no  questions.  Uncle 
Alf  boiled  righteous  wrath  over  the  utter  base- 
ness of  those  who  were  deaf  to  his  exhortings. 
"  Let  fire  come  down  from  heaven  and  ut- 
terly destroy  'em,"  was  the  prophet's  parting 
valedictory  for  the  recalcitrants  who  now  lay 
shut  behind  him  by  the  gate  of  the  mountains. 
Then  he  let  his  rapt  eye  sweep  the  noble  ex- 
panse of  the  Big  Country  like  an  unfolded 
scroll  at  his  feet.  The  spirit  of  the  wild  seer 
leaped  in  tune  with  the  sublimity  there  made 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      121 

manifest.  He  saw  in  the  leagues  of  tumbling 
divides  stretching  to  purpling  distances  crea- 
tion of  Genesis  fresh  from  the  Hand  that  la- 
bored. All  the  heaving  world  below  him  and 
the  pure  depths  of  the  sky  rimmed  over  it 
seemed  vibrant  with  the  vitality  of  God.  Only 
man  was  vile. 

Uncle  Alf  turned  his  horse  to  the  downward 
trail.  From  the  depths  of  his  chest  came  rum- 
bling a  song.  Head  back,  eyes  staring  raptly 
at  the  blazing  ball  of  the  sun,  the  evangelist 
sent  a  great  voice  booming  out  into  the  silence : 

That  heavenly  music!  what  is  it  I  hear! 

The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on  my  ear. 

And  see,  soft  unfolding,  them  portals  of  gold; 

The  King  all  arrayed  in  his  beauty  behold! 

Oh,  give  me  —  oh,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove ! 

Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  them  mansions  above. 

As  Uncle  Alf  took  the  dip  down  to  the  lower 
plain  he  saw  far  off  a  moving  spot  against  the 
brown.  It  was,  perhaps,  twenty  miles  away. 
It  was  moving  toward  him  on  the  trail  to  Sioux 
Pass.  The  wilderness  preacher  urged  his 
mount  into  a  canter,  for  he  was  expecting  to 
spend  the  night  at  a  ranch  on  the  upper  reaches 
of  Teapot,  and  the  sun  already  was  riding  the 
rim  of  the  Broken  Horns  behind  him. 


122      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Down  dropped  the  sun  and  the  quick  dark 
of  the  Big  Country  came  marching  in  a  wide 
zone  of  shadow  from  the  feet  of  the  mountains. 
Uncle  Alf  rode  on  steadily.  When  his  mind 
was  not  conning  bits  of  Scripture  and  auto- 
matically pigeonholing  them  against  the  exi- 
gencies of  one  of  the  prophet's  extempore  ser- 
mons, it  harked  back  to  idle  speculation  as  to 
the  moving  dot  seen  on  the  plain ;  why  had  not 
the  horseman  riding  the  Sioux  Pass  trail  been 
met?  What  could  have  caused  his  diversion 
from  the  trail  here  in  this  country  of  no  habi- 
tations? 

Much  solitude  in  the  Big  Country  breeds 
clairvoyance.  From  the  untenanted  air,  from 
the  whispers  of  the  silver  birches  in  the  stream 
beds  come  voices  of  the  weird  for  the  inner  ear 
of  the  man  alone.  With  Uncle  Alf,  who  lived 
in  constant  communion  with  saints  and 
prophets  of  an  ancient  day  and  whose  mind 
was  attuned  to  those  rarefied  wave  emana- 
tions which  bring  a  howl  from  the  wolf  and  a 
snort  of  terror  from  the  horse  when  man  senses 
nothing  untoward,  there  was  a  strong  clair- 
voyant sense  he  named  a  calling.  Now,  riding 
alone  and  in  the  waxing  dark,  the  man  received 
a   calling,    warning   him   that   the  horseman 


Trails  to   Two   Moons      12  3 

he  had  seen  from  afar  and  expected  to  meet 
was  a  son  of  Belial. 

As  surely  as  if  human  lips  had  uttered  the 
words  Uncle  Alf  plucked  from  the  night  the 
message:  "  It  is  the  Killer  you  shall  meet." 

Every  hair  on  his  old  head  pricked  up  with 
rage  and  that  danger  thrill  still  surviving  from 
the  days  of  the  tree  folk.  Even  as  his  voice 
growled  and  muttered  curses  in  his  beard  his 
gangling  frame  stiffened  to  the  animal  reflex 
of  the  battle  call.  His  eyes  sharpened  them- 
selves for  peering  through  the  clotted  shadows. 

"  Behold,  Boaz  winnoweth  barley  to-night," 
he  muttered,  "  and  in  the  night  season  shall 
the  chaff  be  burned  entirely." 

Three  short,  sharp  barks  from  a  coyote 
somewhere  ahead  in  the  dark  caused  Uncle  Alf 
suddenly  to  rein  in  his  horse.  His  ears  strained 
themselves  for  another  noise  and  at  last  they 
detected  the  shuff-shuff  of  horse's  hoofs  at  an 
easy  trot.    They  were  still  a  distance  off.   . 

Uncle  Alf  whirled  his  horse  about  and  made 
at  a  walk  for  the  brink  of  a  coulee  into  which 
the  trail  dipped  a  hundred  yards  back.  Over 
the  edge  of  this  slash  across  the  countryside 
the  trail  dropped  precipitously  twenty  feet  or 
more  to  the  dry  creek  bed,  then  rose  to  take 


124      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

the  farther  wall  at  a  steep  angle.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  this  U-drop  of  the  trail  a  tuft  of  cotton- 
woods  ripped  from  its  moorings  somewhere  up- 
stream by  a  spring  flood  had  lodged  beside  the 
trail ;  the  trees  were  eking  out  a  starved  life  in 
half  leaf.  Behind  the  cottonwood  clump  Un- 
cle Alf  drove  his  horse  and  waited,  one  hand 
pinching  hard  on  the  beast's  nostrils  to  shut  off 
a  possible  neigh. 

The  range  preacher  had  no  weapon. 

Perhaps  ten  minutes  of  waiting,  then  a  black 
bulk  showed  against  the  lesser  dark  at  the  edge 
of  the  coulee.  A  rattle  of  stones  as  the  night 
rider's  mount  bunched  his  hoofs  for  the  slide 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  coulee.  Just  as  the 
horse  struck  bottom  Uncle  Alf  dug  his  heels 
into  his  pony's  flanks  and  sent  him  crashing 
straight  for  horse  and  rider. 

"Murderer!"  screamed  Uncle  Alf.  The 
other  fumbled  with  a  saddle  holster,  but  be- 
fore he  could  draw  his  rifle  a  snakelike  arm 
whipped  about  his  throat  just  as  his  horse 
staggered  under  the  impact  of  collision.  He 
was  dragged  from  his  saddle  and  held  dan- 
gling, feet  above  the  ground,  by  the  garroting 
arm. 

The  one  attacked  had  blindly  held  to  his 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      125 

bridle  rein  when  he  was  swept  off  the  horse. 
Now  his  beast,  charging  and  plunging  in  a 
folly  of  terror,  swung  his  flank  viciously 
against  the  man's  middle,  catching  his  body 
and  driving  it  against  Uncle  Alf 's  saddle  girth. 
A  strangled  scream  of  pain  and  the  struggling 
figure  suddenly  relaxed.  That  instant,  too, 
Uncle  Alf's  saddle  girth  parted;  the  top-heavy 
saddle  toppled,  and  the  circuit  rider  went  down 
to  the  stream  bed  with  his  prisoner.  Both 
horses  dashed  down  the  coulee;  the  noise  of 
their  hoofs  against  the  stones  died  to  nothing- 
ness. 

The  instant  he  struck  ground  Uncle  Alf 
rolled  on  top  of  the  man  he  had  grappled, 
ready  to  pin  him  down  with  knees  and  body 
while  his  hands  went  to  the  throat.  But  there 
was  not  a  flicker  of  movement  in  the  form  be- 
neath him. 

Wary  against  a  possible  trick,  Uncle  Alf 
dared  let  one  hand  grope  for  his  saddle  and 
draw  it  close.  The  fumbling  hand  found  and 
untied  the  picket  rope  from  its  place  under  the 
horn.  Then  very  carefully  Uncle  Alf  bound 
his  man,  giving  him  the  hogtie,  —  bound  feet 
canted  over  the  back  and  noosed  to  the  neck. 
When  he  had  finished  he  lighted  a  match, 


126      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

turned  his  trussed  prisoner  over  and  held  the 
match  close  to  a  coarse  face.  Uncle  Alf  rec- 
ognized the  man  whom  Hilma  Ring  had  named 
as  the  slayer  of  her  father  —  the  Killer. 

"  Look  down,  dear  God.    I,  Alpheus,  even 
I  have  brung  a  man  of  blood  to  thy  judgment." 


CHAPTER  X 

The  gathering  dusk  that  had  fallen  upon 
Uncle  Alf  questing  the  mysterious  rider  in- 
folded also  Zang  Whistler  and  the  girl  Hilma 
riding  toward  the  Spout.  Their  way  was  long; 
they  had  not  departed  from  the  cabin  where 
Original  Bill  lay  unconscious  until  mid-after- 
noon; there  was  no  call  to  push  their  horses, 
particularly  since  the  somnolent  Christian 
Hilma  rode  refused  utterly  to  break  from  a 
stiff -kneed  trot  long  custom  under  his  dead 
master  had  established  as  a  maximum  require- 
ment of  speed. 

A  capricious  genius  of  the  Big  Country,  de- 
lighting ever  to  mingle  leaven  of  doubt  and 
hint  of  insecurity  with  whatever  joys  she 
grudgingly  permits  her  creatures,  must  have 
taken  a  teasing  pleasure  from  Zang's  state  of 
mind  during  that  long  ride.  For  it  was  un- 
stable as  a  weather  vane,  volatile  as  mercury 
under  a  clutching  finger.    When  first  Hilma 


128      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

had  given  her  assent  to  ride  with  him  into  the 
Spout  a  great  triumph  had  swept  over  the 
man's  heart;  his  pride  of  conquest  vaunted 
itself.  As  they  rode  together  across  the  swell- 
ing divides  Zang  babbled  exultingly  of  the 
future,  and  the  pronoun  we  held  large  place 
in  his  discourse:  "  We  '11  give  those  cow  out- 
fits a  run,"  and  "  We  '11  show  that  Original 
fella  not  to  sit  into  a  game  less  he  sawys  all 
the  pricks  on  the  cards." 

Once  in  his  pride  of  possession  Zang  pushed 
his  mount  close  to  the  stumbling  Christian  and 
essayed  to  slip  a  masterful  arm  about  the  girl's 
waist.  His  hand  was  met  by  firm  fingers, 
which  promptly  disengaged  the  clasp.     "  Say 

"  the  man's  protest  began,  but  stopped 

there.  Though  Hilma's  eyes  were  held  reso- 
lutely to  the  front,  a  monitory  tightening  of 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  carried  warning  not 
to  be  carelessly  unheeded. 

Puzzlement  slowly  began  to  oust  confidence 
from  the  lover's  mind.  This  was  not  the  way 
a  woman  should  act  after  she  had  given  in  to 
a  man.  No,  sir !  Any  girl  who  had  consented 
to  have  Zang  Whistler  for  a  sweetheart  ought 
to  warm  up  a  bit.  Any  girl  who  was  riding 
with  him  to  the  Spout  - 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      129 

"  Say,  Hilma,"  Zang  finally  burst  out  petu- 
lantly, "  what 's  the  main  idea?  You  're 
holdin'  me  off  with  a  twenty-foot  tepee  pole 
like  I  was  something  a  kiote  dug  up  in  a  dry 
wash.  Don't  I  have  no  —  no  claim?"  The 
man  ended  his  protest  lamely  under  the  level 
gaze  of  her  eyes.  All  their  accustomed  chill 
of  mountain  ice  —  the  deep  dark  blue  of  a 
hidden  glacial  lake  —  was  there  to  shrivel 
Zang's  dream  of  romance. 

"  Claim?  "  Hilma  echoed  flatly.    "  Claim?  " 

"  Why,  sure !  You  're  ridin'  with  me  to  the 
Spout,  ain't  you?  You  've  give  yourself  into 
my  keeping,  or  I  don't  know  the  human  lan- 
guage." 

"  Men  are  all  foolish,"  Hilma  laughed 
shortly.  "  All  the  time  thinking  about  pos- 
sessing some  woman  —  owning  her  like  they  'd 
own  a  branded  heifer.  Me  —  no  man  owns 
me,  Zang." 

11  Well,  by  the  great  jumpin'  Jehoshaphat!  " 
The  leader  of  the  Spout  gang  swept  off  his 
high-crowned  hat  and  slammed  it  against  his 
thigh.  Nascent  anger  struggled  with  a  whim- 
sical humor  in  his  eyes. 

'  Who  said  anythin'  'bout  putting  a  brand 
on  to  you,  girl?    All  I  'm  asking  is,  have  you 


130      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

got  a  little  love  in  yoiir  heart  for  ole  Zang 
Whistler;  yes  or  no?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Hilma  quietly. 

Zang's  bridle  hand  gave  such  a  jump  his 
high-strung  little  horse  flattened  back  his  ears 
and  made  a  quick  feint  at  sunfishing.  The 
rider  quickly  recovered  himself,  stretched  out 
a  hand  to  Christian's  bridle  to  stop  him.  Pull- 
ing his  own  horse  to  a  halt  Zang  faced  the  girl 
squarely. 

"  Looky  here,  Hilma  girl,  'pears  to  me  like 
we  might  as  well  have  a  show-down  right  here 
'thout  each  of  us  makin'  a  show  of  holdin'  back 
the  high  ace.  Answer  me  true;  just  how  do 
you  figger  yourself  —  you  with  your  little  bun- 
dle of  clothes  on  your  saddle  horn  an'  ridin'  to 
Teapot  Spout  with  Zang  Whistler.  I  'm  put- 
ting it  blunt  an'  plain  as  the  business  end  of  a 
sixshooter:  Are  you  Zang  Whistler's  woman 
or  are  you  not? " 

A  hot  wave  of  color  hung  a  danger  signal 
in  each  of  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  into  her  eyes 
leaped  the  fighting  fire.  Zang's  heart  cried 
out  that  never  had  this  girl  been  more  regally 
wonderful  to  look  upon. 

"  You  do  know  how  to  choose  words.  Zang 
Whistler's    woman!      That    sounds    pretty! 


Trails   to    Two    Moons      131 

Back  in  the  cabin  I  was  a  poor  defenseless  girl 
—  an  outlaw  with  a  jail  term  ahead  of  me 
soon  's  I  got  caught ;  alone  in  the  world,  help- 
less, with  an  indictment  hanging  over  my  head. 
And  Zang  Whistler  out  of  the  kindness  of  his 
heart  offers  to  protect  me  —  offers  to  take  me 
where  the  law  can't  reach.  Now  —  Zang 
Whistler's  woman!" 

"  Hobble  that  line  of  talk!  "  Blazing  anger 
now  shook  the  man's  speech.  "  You  Ve  got  no 
call  to  make  out  somethin'  I  never  said,  nor 
don't  intend  to  say.  I  never  —  I  didn't  — 
oh,  hell's  fire  an'  hoop  snakes !  How  can  I  say 
what  I  want  to  say?  Over  to  the  Spout  there  's 
one  woman  already  —  she  's  Lonny  Taylor's 
lawful  wife.  I  was  aimin'  you  should  live  with 
her  until  —  until  somehow  I  could  rope  Uncle 
Alf  to  ride  over  an'  make  marriage  medicine 
between  us.  Preachers  don't  squat  under 
every  sagebush  in  this  country,  an'  you  know 
it.  " 

Zang  dropped  his  hand  from  the  girl's  bridle. 
There  was  something  definitive  in  the  gesture ; 
the  freed  bridle  freed  also  the  girl  Zang  had 
thought  to  be  wholly  his.  Hers  was  the  next 
move. 

Hilma's  eyes  looked  deep  down  into  the 


132      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

smoldering  eyes  of  the  man  and  read  there  the 
honesty  she  had  secretly  believed  all  the  time 
she  would  uncover  did  she  care  to  try.  The 
soundness  and  wholesomeness  of  the  man's  love 
flattered  her;  instinctively  the  guile  in  her  — 
birthright  of  her  sex  —  had  pushed  her  on  to 
force  this  disclosure  even  though  she  was  un- 
conscious of  the  fact  that  her  own  stratagem 
had  provoked  cause  for  anger.  Hilma  believed 
she  had  every  reason  to  feel  that  anger;  so 
much,  at  least,  had  been  genuine.  As  for  the 
rest,  the  girl  knew  naught  but  cold  selfishness 
had  prompted  her  to  accept  Zang's  offer  of 
protection  back  there  in  her  cabin.  Even  as 
she  accepted,  knowing  the  man  would  construe 
her  act  to  be  a  surrender  of  love,  Hilma  re- 
sented his  misreading  of  this  spurious  coin.  So 
the  feminine  heart  of  her,  unmoved  as  yet  by 
any  semblance  of  passion,  had  dictated  a  bar- 
gain whereby  she  should  gain  all  without  pay- 
ing a  stiver.  That  chance  of  a  bargain  still  re- 
mained, she  believed. 

Hilma  picked  up  the  bridle  and  urged  Chris- 
tian into  a  trot  along  the  way  they  had  come 
—  along  the  road  to  the  Spout.  Zang  rode 
by  her  side.  He  was  silent.  The  outlaw  who 
had  successfully  built  up  his  kingdom  beyond 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      133 

the  law,  who  had  dared  the  agents  of  the  law 
to  come  and  shackle  him,  this  man  of  the  wil- 
derness was  turning  over  in  his  inept  heart  the 
problem  that  is  woman.  Gladly  would  Zang 
Whistler  swap  shots  with  a  sheriff's  posse  be- 
hind the  brink  of  a  coulee;  with  the  lightest 
heart  in  the  world  he  would  sally  forth  in  the 
night  to  stampede  a  herd  and  cut  out  a  string 
of  beeves  under  the  rifles  of  their  protectors; 
but  this  woman  business  — this  she-stuff,  as 
Zang  termed  it  —  was  not  his  game.  Like  a 
blind  cripple  trying  to  ride  an  unbroken  bronc, 
so  Zang  in  his  complete  bewilderment  suinmed 
his  incapacity  to  cope  with  or  fathom  this  fair 
antagonist. 

Beneath  the  hard  surface  of  the  girl's  com- 
plete selfishness  a  faint  stirring  of  conscience 
began  to  make  itself  felt  as  she  rode  in  silence 
by  the  side  of  this  man  who  had  sworn  to  pro- 
tect her.  Night  was  falling  and  nights  brought 
stark  loneliness  to  her.  Perhaps  this  was  the 
circumstance  provoking  belated  protest  of  con- 
science; perhaps  just  the  feminine  instinct 
always  to  appear  at  the  best  in  the  eyes  of  a 
man.  Hilma  was  faintly  surprised  that  she 
should  feel  necessity  to  say  more  on  a  sub- 
ject closed  the  instant  Zang  had  dropped  her 


134      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

bridle.  Never  had  she  been  accustomed  to  con- 
sider the  sensibilities  of  others;  never  had  she 
been  in  contact  with  the  sensibilities  of  any  save 
her  father,  and  they  were  blunted  to  all  but  the 
coarser  reactions.    Yet 

"  Zang,"  she  said,  a  little  hesitantly. 

"  What?  "  No  encouragement  in  his  barked 
answer. 

"  I  told  you  back  there  in  the  cabin  —  when 
you  asked  me  to  go  to  the  Spout  with  you  — 
I  told  you  I  would,  you  remember,  on  my 
own  terms." 

"  An'  I  'd  have  to  wait  your  own  good 
time  to  find  out  what  your  terms  were,"  came 
the  brusque  interruption. 

"  Yes,  Zang,  I  thought  that  way  was  best." 
Almost  a  shade  of  tenderness  in  the  girl's  voice 
now.  The  man  strained  his  eyes  to  peer 
through  the  gathering  dark  and  read  her  face; 
it  was  denied  him  by  the  gloom,  lemon  tinged 
by  the  last  streak  of  fire  along  the  crests  of  the 
Broken  Horns. 

"  Please  —  please  don't  ask  —  or  expect  — 
too  much  all  at  once,  Zang,  and  "  —  a  faint 
ghost  of  a  sigh  in  the  near  dark  —  "Tm 
sorry." 

"  Let  everythin'  ride  as  is.    That  goes  with 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      135 

me,"  the  outlaw  said  simply,  and  again  silence 
fell  between  them. 

They  were  at  the  fork  of  the  trail  where  one 
narrow  horse  path  turns  south  to  climb  the 
heights  into  the  Spout  and  the  other  carries  on 
to  the  westward  and  Sioux  Pass.  Hardly  had 
Zang's  horse  chosen  the  homeward  path  than 
a  shrill  whinny  came  out  of  the  dark.  This 
Zang's  pony  answered  before  the  rider's  quick 
hand  could  slip  down  and  shut  off  the  equine 
hailing  sign,  —  a  precaution  that  was  auto- 
matic with  the  Spout  outlaw.  A  clatter  of 
hoofs  out  there  in  the  dark,  and  a  riderless 
horse  came  cantering  up  to  within  a  few  feet 
of  the  beasts  the  man  and  woman  rode,  circled 
warily,  then  cavorted  off  a  short  distance.  The 
cayuse  was  followed  by  a  second,  more  cau- 
tious, who  remained  out  of  sight  but  betrayed 
his  presence  by  loud  snortings.  The  horse  they 
could  see  was  saddled  and  bridled ;  faintly  they 
could  distinguish  the  stock  of  a  rifle  protrud- 
ing above  the  saddle  scabbard. 

"  Somebody 's  afoot,"  Zang  commented 
aloud.  "  Wonder  who?  "  He  dismounted,  un- 
coiled his  reata  from  the  saddle  horn  and  strode 
off  into  the  darkness.  Hilma  heard  him  coax- 
ing the  runaway  to  come  into  swinging  dis- 


136      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

tance  of  the  rope;  the  girl  was  struck  by  the 
note  of  patience  and  kindliness  in  the  man's 
voice,  for  in  a  similar  task  she  would  have  lost 
her  temper  and  failed  of  her  purpose.  Zang 
came  back  presently,  leading  the  stray  and 
with  the  second  runaway  meekly  following 
after. 

"  Somethin'  queer  about  this,  'specially  away 
out  here,"  he  said  as  he  threw  one  leg  over  his 
saddle  and  prepared  to  lead  the  roped  horse. 
"  That  other  bronc  who 's  playin'  mousey 
has  no  saddle  but  a  bridle  on ;  this  willowtail  's 
rigged  right  down  to  a  muley  in  the  stocking." 
A  note  of  doubt  crept  into  his  voice.  "  Won- 
der if  anybody  moseyin'  round  the  Spout  met 
up  with  one  of  my  boys  an'  had  some  sort  of 
rukus." 

"  Look  over  there! "  Hilma  exclaimed  and 
she  pointed  off  to  the  west.  Zang  followed  the 
direction  she  indicated  and  saw  a  small  yellow 
spark  against  the  blackness. 

"  That 's  the  fella  who  's  afoot,"  Zang  ex- 
plained. "  He  's  just  beddin'  down  for  the 
night  until  he  can  catch  up  his  horse  come  day- 
light. Ye-ah,  but  if  it 's  one  of  the  Spout  boys 
he  'd  know  enough  not  to  make  a  light  away 
from  home ;  we  don't  hang  out  a  sign  if  night 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      137 

catches  us  out  from  the  Spout.  Still  an' 
all " 

The  outlaw  was  uncomfortable  in  the  face 
of  a  mystery  —  perhaps  a  trivial  matter  of 
wayfarers  who  had  lost  their  mounts,  per- 
chance something  of  graver  import.  Zang 
Whistler's  instinct  of  protection  did  not  per- 
mit him  to  leave  unexplained  any  untoward 
circumstance  in  close  proximity  to  his  retreat. 

"  Reckon  we  '11  just  swing  over  toward  that 
fire  an'  see  what  we  can  see." 

They  swerved  from  their  trail  accordingly. 
Fifteen  minutes'  riding  brought  them  to  the 
top  of  a  small  rise  perhaps  two  hundred  yards 
away  from  the  fire.  They  could  distinguish 
two  figures  in  the  firelight,  both  close  to  the 
ground. 

"  If  you  '11  just  stick  here,"  Zang  suggested, 
"  I  '11  ease  up  closer  an'  get  a  line  on  things. 
Don't  be  scared.  I  '11  not  mix  into  any  gun 
play  if  they  're  not  our  kind  —  not  with  you 
along.    If  you  hear  me  whistle  come  on." 

He  gave  her  the  rope  of  the  led  horse  and 
dismounted.  With  his  bridle  over  his  arm  and 
his  little  horse  carefully  picking  its  steps  after 
his,  Zang  disappeared.  Hilma  noted  that  he 
carried  his  .45  in  his  hand. 


138      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Alone  once  more,  the  girl  felt  the  surge  of 
the  night  fear  sweep  over  her  —  that  corrod- 
ing chill  bred  of  the  vast  spaces  and  the  vault 
of  lonely  stars  which  had  made  each  succeeding 
night  since  her  father's  death  an  age-long 
agony.  Of  a  sudden  this  man  who  had  just 
quit  her  side  seemed  precious  beyond  price. 
He  stood  between  herself  and  all  the  unformed 
menace  of  the  limitless  wilderness  that  held 
her  prisoner ;  he  was  for  her  a  steady  burning 
light  in  darkness. 

How  to  hold  him?  Love,  he  had  said;  love 
was  the  price  he  had  demanded.  Did  she  have 
a  little  love  for  Zang  Whistler ;  that  had  been 
his  question.    No 

Oh,  but  yes!  Yes!  If  love  meant  release 
from  this  grim  spell  of  fear.  If  love  were  the 
giving  of  thanks  for  protection  against  the 
drive  of  unthinkable  terrors,  that  could  she  give 
Zang.    No  other  sort  of  love  Hilma  knew. 

A  whistle  came  to  snap  the  girl's  groping 
reverie.  She  saw  the  figure  of  Zang  standing 
before  the  fire  and  waving  her  to  come.  So 
she  rode  fearlessly  into  the  circle  of  light. 

Uncle  Alf  strode  to  the  edge  of  the  dark  ta 
welcome  her.  His  arms  were  spread  wide  in 
an  ecstatic  gesture. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      139 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,  daughter! "  he  boomed 
in  his  storm  voice.  "  For  vengeance  is  in  thy 
hands.  Yea,  through  Alpheus,  servant  of  the 
Lord,  is  the  murderer  delivered  into  the  hands 
of  the  fatherless." 

Hilma  looked  from  the  towering  figure  of 
the  prophet  over  to  where  Zang  stood  behind 
a  bound  figure ;  a  wide  smile  split  the  outlaw's 
features.  Uncle  Alf  helped  the  girl  to  dis- 
mount and  led  her  by  the  hand  to  where  the 
trussed  man  lay  on  his  side.  With  a  lift  of  his 
foot  he  turned  the  inert  figure  over  so  that  his 
face  was  revealed  by  the  firelight.  The  girl 
looked  down  upon  a  blotched  and  scowling 
mask  of  animal  ferocity;  little  eyes  heavily 
overhung  with  puffed  lids  glared  at  her  like 
the  eyes  of  a  trapped  wolf;  under  a  ragged 
mustache  bestial  lips  parted  to  show  yellow 
fangs.  , 

"  Well,"  snarled  the  Killer,  "you  blat,  you 
mutton  lover! " 

The  taunt  galvanized  the  girl  out  of  the 
shock  recognition  had  carried.  She  screamed 
in  fury  and  dropped  with  her  knees  on  the 
Killer's  chest.  Her  crooked  fingers  darted  for 
his  venomous  little  eyes.  Before  Zang's  strong 
grip  closed  about  her  wrists  wicked  slashes  of 


140      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

red  crisscrossed  over  the  bound  man's  eyes. 
His  jaw  was  dropped  in  terror. 

Zang  lifted  Hilma,  fighting,  to  her  feet. 

"  There  now,  girl,"  he  soothed,  "  that  ain't 
exactly  'cordin'  to  Hoyle  —  not  that  the  skunk 
don't  deserve  it,  but  he  '&  hogtied,  you  see." 

"  But  he  killed  my  father! "  Hilma  panted. 
"  Shot  him  from  behind.  He  has  no  right  to 
live." 

"  Leave  him  to  the  vengeance  of  the  Most 
High,"  Uncle  Alf  droned.  "  A  great  fire  will 
wither  him  up  entirely." 

"  But  you  '11  shoot  him?  "  Hilma  put  the 
question  to  the  evangelist  in  the  innocence  of 
a  child  certain  of  right  dealing  on  the  part  of 
its  elders. 

"  No,  daughter.  The  Book  says,  '  Venge- 
ance is  mine,  saith  the  Lord/  I  '11  take  this 
here  man  of  blood  to  the  court  in  Two  Moons, 
which  is  the  Lord's  instrument  of  vengeance. 
1  An  eye  for  an  eye/  says  the  law." 

"  Then  I  '11  go  with  you,"  Hilma  declared. 
Determination  came  full  formed  on  the  wings 
of  impulse.  It  was  born  of  the  mastering  idea 
that  no  possible  trick  of  circumstance,  no 
satiric  stratagem  on  the  part  of  this  genius 
of  the  wilderness  that  was  her  enemy,  should 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      141 

cheat  her  of  witnessing  the  visitation  of  retri- 
bution upon  the  head  of  the  slayer.  Caution 
was  discarded. 

At  Hilma's  announcement  Zang  started. 
His  eyes  questioned  hers  fruitlessly.  Taking 
the  girl  by  the  arm,  he  led  her  a  little  away, 
out  of  earshot  of  the  Killer. 

"  You  're  sure  not  aimin'  to  walk  right  into 
Original  Bill's  arms,"  he  urged  tensely.  "  Not 
prance  right  up  'longside  an  indictment  for 
assault? " 

"  That  man  Won't  dare  make  a  move  if  I 
come  into  town  bringing  the  Killer,"  Hilma 
countered.  "  He  'd  be  mobbed.  Anyway,  he 
does  n't  fight  women  in  the  open  —  where  oth- 
ers can  see  him.     What 's  more " 

"But,  girl " 

"  What 's  more,  you  know  Uncle  Alf .  If 
he  should  be  riding  in  alone  with  the  Killer 
and  thought  he  heard  a  voice  telling  him  to  let 
the  man  go,  why,  he  'd  let  him  go  and  then 
prove  from  the  Bible  he  did  right.  No,  Zang, 
I  'm  not  taking  any  chances.  Anyway,  they  '11 
want  me  for  a  witness,  won't  they? " 

The  girl  looked  up  to  his  eyes  and  saw  a 
conflict  there.  A  new  tenderness,  sensed  once 
before  that  night,  stirred  her  heart. 


142      Trails   to   Two    Moons 

"You,  Zang;  you  can't  come,  I  know.  It 
would  be  walking  straight  into  jail.  But  — 
but,  Zang,  I  '11  come  back  to  you.  I  —  I 
have  n't  much  to  give  you,  Zang,  but  I  '11  try 
to  —  play  fair." 

He  left  her  abruptly  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness.  When  he  returned  he  was  leading 
the  saddleless  horse,  Uncle  Alf's  runaway.  A 
few  minutes'  work  with  a  rawhide  thread 
served  to  repair  the  broken  girth,  and  Zang 
had  the  saddle  in  place  shortly.  The  evan- 
gelist, willing  enough  to  see  his  prisoner  be- 
hind bars  at  the  earliest  moment,  helped  Zang 
lift  the  Killer  back  to  his  own  saddle.  His  legs 
were  bound  beneath  the  horse's  belly.  Zang 
mounted  his  own  beast  and  slipped  the  bridle 
of  the  prisoner's  horse  over  his  arm.  He  led 
the  way  back  to  that  point  on  the  trail  whence 
he  and  Hilma  had  first  seen  Uncle  Alf's  fire. 
Hilma  pressed  up  to  him  when  the  trail  showed 
a  dim  line  under  the  horses'  hoofs  and  put  out 
her  hand  to  take  the  leading  bridle. 

"  Good-by,  Zang.  Remember,  I  '11  come 
back." 

"  Save  your  good-by  for  another  time," 
Zang  laughed  exultantly.  "  I  'm  riding  with 
you  to  Two  Moons." 


CHAPTER   XI 

The  dawn  that  broke  over  Two  Moons  fol- 
lowing the  events  just  narrated  ushered  in  a 
day  bulking  large  in  the  town's  history.  Even 
now  when  a  frosty  autumn  night  finds  the  old- 
timers  assembled  around  the  stove  of  the  back 
room  of  Goteh's  drug  store  —  substitute  rally- 
ing place  in  this  day  of  the  Great  Drought  — 
reminiscence  inevitably  swings  back  to  that 
cardinal  spot  in  the  calendar  of  the  past. 
Gnarled  old  range  riders  leap  into  heated  ar- 
guments: Supposing  Sheriff  Red  Agnew  had 
done  thus  and  so;  what  would  have  happened 
if  Zang  Whistler  had  not  had  a  bullet  hole 
through  his  shooting  hand?  Alas,  the  muta- 
tions of  time!  Modern  Two  Moons'  old-tim- 
ers review  thus  the  high  tides  of  romance  in  a 
golden  age  that  has  sped;  the  new  generation 
goes  down  to  the  station  to  see  the  eight-four 
from  Billings  come  in. 

The  early  morning  stage,  in  from  Lost  Sol- 


144      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

diers  on  the  railroad,  brought  to  this  core  of 
the  Big  Country  internecine  strife  a  new  and 
potent  actor.  Yet  so  consistently  did  this  field 
general  of  hidden  forces  follow  his  policy  of 
unobtrusive  penetration  wherever  he  went 
that  none  of  the  knot  of  townsfolk  and  cow- 
punchers,  gathered  to  watch  the  stage  halt 
before  the  doors  of  the  Occidental  Hotel,  rec- 
ognized him.  Had  any  attempted  to  follow 
recognition  with  a  hail  the  stranger  doubtless 
would  have  stared  him  out  of  countenance  and 
passed  on. 

A  sleepless  night  in  the  swaying  stage  up 
from  the  railroad  point  had  touched  the  new- 
comer not  at  all.  His  bland  unbearded  features 
were  as  fresh  and  free  from  insomnia  strain  as 
a  schoolboy's.  A  very  wide  mouth  seemed 
perpetually  cocked  and  primed  for  an  ingrati- 
ating smile,  but  the  hard  gray  eyes  of  him 
denied  the  genuineness  of  this  consciously  dis- 
played tag  of  good  humor.  He  wore  the  uni- 
form of  a  politician,  —  for  in  the  Big  Country 
the  broad-brimmed  black  Stetson,  the  black 
string  tie  and  flaring  tails  of  the  Prince  Albert 
have  assumed  for  the  wearer  all  the  distinguish- 
ing importance  of  a  uniform.  He  was,  more- 
over, a  great  joiner;  pins  or  fobs  of  at  least 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      145 

four  fraternal  organizations  glittered  conspic- 
uously from  as  many  vantage  points  on  his 
person. 

"Warren  J.  Von  Tromp,  Cheyenne,"  was 
the  signature  he  put  in  a  sprawling  hand  upon 
the  Occidental's  register,  and  he  went  smiling 
into  breakfast. 

Now  to  Henry  Quick,  the  Occidental's  pro- 
prietor, this  name  carried  nothing.  Perhaps 
there  were  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  men  in 
all  the  Big  Country  who  would  appreciate  that 
the  arrival  of  Warren  J.  Von  Tromp,  of  Chey- 
enne, was  a  weighty  event  for  town  and  coun- 
try equally.  If  one  could  plump  the  question, 
"  Who  are  you?  "  at  Von  Tromp  with  a  fair 
assurance  of  receiving  an  answer  even  half 
truthful  that  answer  might  be,  "I  am  a  law- 
yer." In  so  far  as  a  certain  parchment  upon 
the  wall  of  Von  Tromp's  office  in  Cheyenne 
attested  to  his  admission  to  the  bar,  that  reply 
to  the  supposititious  query  would  be  truthful. 

But  only  a  modicum  of  truth  therein. 
Warren  J.  Von  Tromp  was  much  more  than 
a  lawyer.  His  field  of  activity  lay  far  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  State  capital.  Washington 
knew  him  better  than  Cheyenne,  and  he  was 
not  a  stranger  even  to  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel 


146      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

in  London.  Von  Tramp's  appearance  in  a 
court  was  far  less  frequent  than  in  some  locked 
room,  some  place  where  work  along  his  pecul- 
iar line  was  waiting  to  be  done.  He  knew  the 
statutes,  but  better  he  knew  neat  and  safe  ways 
to  subvert  the  statutes.  Von  Tromp  had  his 
own  code  of  ethics.  Never  would  he  stoop  to 
suborn  perjury,  for  instance ;  he  would  arrange 
matters  so  that  perjury  was  unnecessary.  Not 
for  worlds  would  he  buy  a  legislative  commit- 
tee, but  he  was  a  master  at  devising  circum- 
stances conducive  to  the  picking  up  of  an  hon- 
est penny  on  the  parts  of  a  committee's  several 
members. 

When  he  had  breakfasted  Von  Tromp 
strolled  out  on  Main  Street  and  ambled  down 
the  row  of  store  fronts.  That  smile  of  his 
which  seemed  ever  trembling  to  be  released  re- 
warded the  gaze  of  the  curious.  He  even  made 
no  bones  of  looking  at  the  numbers  on  the 
doors  and  finally  turning  in  at  a  door  giving  on 
to  a  flight  of  stairs  over  the  Boston  Store.  The 
landlady  of  the  suite  of  living  rooms  there  said 
Original  Bill  had  come  in  very  late  the  night 
before  and  was  still  sleeping.  She  pointed  out 
the  door  of  his  bedroom.  Von  Tromp  knocked 
and  entered  at  the  bidding  from  within. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      147 

Original,  propping  himself  upon  an  elbow 
among  the  bed  covers,  recognized  in  Von 
Tromp  a  man  he  had  occasionally  met  in  the 
company  of  powerful  members  of  the  Stock- 
men's Alliance  down  in  Cheyenne  and  Denver, 
—  one  of  those  mysterious  figures  on  the  inside 
of  the  councils  of  his  employers  whose  business 
was  beyond  his  own  experience  on  the  wide 
range.  He  apologized  simply  for  his  undress, 
saying  he  had  had  a  long  ride  during  the  night. 
Von  Tromp  held  up  a  suave  hand  to  check 
explanations,  seemingly  in  an  impulse  of  ab- 
sent-mindedness hung  his  hat  on  the  door  knob 
where  it  would  cover  the  keyhole  and  drew  a 
chair  alongside  Original's  bed. 

"  Blunt,"  he  began  in  a  confidential  tone, 
"  I  'm  not  one  to  beat  round  the  bush.  I  came 
to  Two  Moons  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  — 
got  in  on  the  stage  not  an  hour  ago,  in  fact, 
here  I  am.  Perhaps  there  's  no  need  of  my 
mentioning  any  names  —  make  it  a  point  never 
to  mention  any  names  when  I  don't  have  to  — 
but  you  '11  understand  I  represent  some  mighty 
important  people  —  yes,  some  people  of  prime 
importance,  Blunt  —  and  what  I  have  to  say 
you  may  take  as  coming  straight  from  them." 

Original  nodded  slowly  and  reached  to  a 


148      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

table  for  papers  and  tobacco.  He  divined  his 
visitor  would  reveal  himself  shortly  as  bearer 
of  some  new  message  of  strategy  in  the  war  of 
the  range,  something  direct  from  headquarters. 
The  first  faint  stirrings  of  dislike  of  his  visitor 
began  to  prick  under  the  alertness  of  the  range 
inspector;  Original  resented  an  indefinable 
quality  in  Von  Tromp's  manner  and  voice, 
a  something  which  seemed  to  set  him  in  the 
status  of  a  hired  hand  about  to  take  his  day's 
orders. 

"  I  may  say  to  start  with  that  —  ah  —  our 
people  are  greatly  alarmed  at  the  way  things 
are  going  here  in  the  Big  Country,"  the  voice 
of  Von  Tromp  purled  on.  "  They  thought 
when  they  put  the  board-of-live-stock-commis- 
sioners  thing  through  the  legislature  and  had 
you  appointed  inspector  for  this  county  the 
wholesale  rustling  of  cattle  would  cease.  They 
relied  upon  you  to  exercise  —  um  —  a  little 
moral  suasion  upon  the  sheepmen  to  keep  them 
back  from  the  cattle  lands.  Unfortunately, 
Blunt,  neither  of  those  hopes  has  been  realized. 
Last  fiscal  year  our  people  had  to  mark  more 
than  $150,000  off  their  accounts  to  the  credit  of 
cattle  thieves.  To-day,  because  of  the  invasion 
of  the  sheep  and  the  taking  up  of  claims  by 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      149 

homesteaders  —  every  one  of  whom  is  a  cattle 
thief,  remember,  Blunt  —  the  available  range 
for  our  people's  stock  is  less  than  half  what  it 
was  ten  years  ago.  Absolute  ruin  stares  us  all 
in  the  face." 

"Well,  what  can  one  man  do  about  it?" 
Original  was  quick  to  resent  the  innuendo  of 
responsibility  the  other  had  pushed  upon  him. 
"  I  've  had  twenty- two  men  before  the  grand 
jury  on  charges  of  brand  smoking  this  past 
year;  indictments  were  found  against  just  five 
of  'em,  an'  on  trial  only  one  of  those  five  got  a 
conviction.  One  man  outa  twenty-two !  I  deal 
myself  nothin'  but  trouble  when  I  go  up  against 
a  sheriff  who  's  against  the  cattle  outfits,  a  dis- 
trict attorney  who  's  elected  by  sheep  money 
an'  grand  juries  the  sheriff  manages  to  have 
drawn  exclusive  from  the  town." 

"  Just  so  —  just  so,"  the  visitor  from  Chey- 
enne soothed.  "  Don't  think  for  a  minute, 
Blunt,  our  people  have  any  fault  to  find  with 
what  you  've  done.  Perhaps  they  are  inclined 
to  wonder  if  you  've  done  all  that  can  be  done 
under  the  circumstances ;  that 's  all  —  all  that 
possibly  could  be  done.     When  the  courts  fail 

to  give  justice,  you  know "     He  finished 

with  a  spreading  of  the  hands  and  a  sage  smile. 


150      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Original  drew  a  lungful  of  smoke  down  deep 
and  gave  Von  Tromp  his  steady  gaze. 

"  Well,  when  the  courts  fail  to  give  justice 
--what?"  Original  queried  bluntly.  His 
visitor  gave  his  shoulders  a  slight  lift. 

"  Take  yourself  as  an  individual.  Suppose 
you  had  a  man  arrested  for  breaking  into  your 
house  and  the  courts  freed  him.  Suppose  you 
had  that  same  man  arrested  the  second  time 
for  the  same  offense  and  the  courts  failed  to 
convict.  What  would  you  do  to  protect  your 
property?  That 's  putting  the  question  fairly." 

"  But  I  'm  an  officer  of  the  State  of  Wyo- 
ming," Original  began.  Von  Tromp  ignored 
his  answer : 

"  You  'd  make  it  healthy  for  that  man  to 
move  away,  would  n't  you?  You  'd  make  the 
country  too  hot  to  hold  him.  Well,  take  the 
case  of  our  people  with  their  backs  to  the  wall 

because  of  the  rustlers  and  sheepmen " 

Von  Tromp  suddenly  broke  his  speech  and 
gazed  reflectively  out  the  window.  He  cast  a 
shrewd  look  into  the  range  inspector's  face  be- 
fore resuming. 

"  I  did  hear  something  down  at  Cheyenne 

—  just  a  rumor  which  circulates  as  rumors  will 

—  about  somebody  with  a  private  grudge  up 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      151 

here  in  the  Big  Country  who  's  been  sniping 
unpopular  sheepmen  and  water-hole  home- 
steaders with  a  Long  Tom.  Maybe  you  can 
tell  me,  just  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  what's 
been  the  effect  of  this  man's  private  feud ;  how 
—  urn  —  have  people  taken  it?  " 

Original  kept  his  unwavering  eyes  upon 
Von  Tromp  as  he  rolled  a  fresh  cigarette  and 
lighted  it. 

"Effect?"  he  echoed.  "Effect's  been  to 
raise  merry  hell.  Everybody  says  the  Killer 
collects  for  every  stone  found  on  a  murdered 
man's  forehead  an'  collects  from " 

"It's  a  gross  libel!"  the  visitor  almost 
shouted.  "  No  association  of  reputable  busi- 
ness men  would  subsidize  murder." 

"  That 's  what  I  like  to  believe,  too,"  Orig- 
inal added  simply.  Von  Tromp  quickly  re- 
gained his  aplomb. 

"  I  merely  cite  that  instance  to  show  how  a 
desperate  man  may  sometimes  be  driven  to 
take  the  law  into  his  own  hands  when,  as  doubt- 
less this  Killer,  so  called,  found  it  to  be  his 
experience,  the  courts  fail  him.  Exactly!  I 
gather  in  this  case  this  misguided  man's  acts 
have  intensified  the  feeling  against  the  cattle- 
men through  popular  misconception  of  the  in- 


152      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

spiration  for  his  conduct.  Or,  as  you  say, 
raised  merry  hell."  Von  Tromp  sped  a  quiz- 
zical glance  at  Original.  "  But  supposing, 
Blunt,  certain  people  we  need  not  mention, 
finding  no  relief  from  the  courts,  and  their 
property  being  daily  diminished  by  the  rustlers 
and  the  pirating  of  the  sheepmen  upon  the 
range  rightfully  theirs,  should  decide  to  take 
the  law  into  their  own  hands  —  to  make  an  ex- 
ample, you  might  say.  Supposing  it  became 
speedily  known  that  the  agents  of  these  out- 
raged property  holders  intended  to  make  no 
distinction  between  actual  rustlers  who  steal 
cattle  and  piratical  sheepmen  who  steal  the 
range." 

"  You  mean  clean  up  the  country?  "  Orig- 
inal asked. 

"  That 's  a  neat  way  of  putting  it,"  his  vis- 
itor smiled.  Original  honed  his  stubbled  jaw 
reflectively.  He  was  of  the  cattle  clan;  its 
chivalry,  its  wild  free  code  had  been  born  in 
him;  all  the  years  of  his  life  he  had  supported 
that  clan's  interests  with  fanatical  devotion. 
With  every  other  of  his  kind  in  the  Big  Coun- 
try, Original  had  bitterly  resented  the  invasion 
of  the  range  by  the  low-caste  homesteader  and 
the  woolly  avalanche  of  the  sheep;  the  any- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      153 

thing  but  equal  administration  of  the  law  in 
Broken  Horn  County  had  sickened  him.  But, 
somehow,  the  proposal  made  by  Von  Tromp 
smacked  of  heresy.  Just  because  it  came  from 
Von  Tromp,  the  outsider,  the  log  roller  and 
fixer,  —  a  man  of  cities  and  alien  to  the  Big 
Country. 

"Well,  sir,  if  anything  like  that 's  started 
this  country  surely  '11  be  cat-dragged  from  one 
end  to  t'other.  There  '11  be  a  fine  hell  stew 
brewed  unless " 

"  But  supposing  the  State  authorities  under- 
stand our  viewpoint  and  —  urn  —  keep  hands 
off  while  matters  are  being  settled? "  Von 
Tromp's  cold  eyes  invited  Original  not  to  be  a 
fool  —  to  see,  in  short,  that  one  Von  Tromp 
would  not  be  idle  in  the  contingency  under 
discussion. 

"Well " 

Von  Tromp  suddenly  rose  from  his  chair, 
walked  to  the  door,  removed  his  hat  from  the 
knob  and  violently  jerked  the  door  open.  As 
if  disappointed  at  finding  no  eavesdroppers  he 
peered  into  the  hallway,  then  closed  the  door 
and  again  veiled  the  keyhole.  He  came  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  inspector's  bed,  remov- 
ing a  letter  from  his  pocket  as  he  did  so. 


154      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"  To  get  down  to  hard  facts,  Blunt,  I  'm 
here  to  give  you  orders.  You  '11  find  this  let- 
ter vouches  for  me  and  all  I  may  direct.  Im- 
mediately you  are  to  begin  working  quietly 
among  the  cow-punchers  and  foremen  on  this 
range,  picking  the  most  careful  men  of  your 
acquaintance  and  organizing  them  into  a  force 
that  can  be  relied  upon.  Certain  men  are  now 
down  in  New  Mexico  and  Texas  rounding  up 
other  men  of  action.  When  the  time  is  ripe 
these  men  will  be  thrown  into  the  Big  Country 
to  do  certain  work.  Your  men  will  be  ready 
to  cooperate  with  them.  But  first,"  Von 
Tromp  waved  an  emphasizing  forefinger, 
"  first,  before  the  competent  men  come  up  from 
the  South,  you  have  something  else  to  do.  You 
are  to  attempt  to  clean  up  the  gang  of  outlaws 
in  Teapot  Spout." 

"  I  was  aimin'  to  do  that  partic'lar  thing 
soon  's  I  could  put  ten  or  a  dozen  good  men  at 
my  back,"  Original  volunteered.  "  I  've  got 
reasons  strong  and  particular  for  wanting  that 
Spout  cleaned  up." 

Von  Tromp  again  turned  upon  the  range 
rider  his  oily  smile. 

"  But  here  is  the  most  important  part  of 
your  instructions,  Blunt.     Attempt  to  clean 


Trails  to  Two  Moons      155 

up  the  Spout.  Put  up  a  nice  fight.  Kill  off  a 
few  of  the  Whistler  gang  if  you  want  to.  But 
fail  in  the  effort  to  round  up  the  gang  com- 
pletely." 

"What!"  Outrage  cried  aloud  from  the 
man's  protest. 

"  I  said  to  fail  to  do  the  job  successfully. 
Fail  to  bring  out  Whistler  or  more  than  a  few 
of  his  gang.  The  reason  is  simple.  A  State 
inspector  does  his  best  to  break  up  by  force  a 
nest  of  outlaws  after  county  authorities  have 
signally  failed  in  their  duty  of  protection  for 
cattle  owners.  But  so  powerful  are  the  out- 
laws the  inspector  cannot  make  headway 
against  them.  Therefore  the  cattle  owners  are 
justified  in  sending  into  the  country  a  force 
of  their  own,  competent  to  clean  up  the  ele- 
ments of  disorder  protected  by  the  county  au- 
thorities and  establish  security.  You  follow 
me?" 

Original,  bewildered  and  with  protest  rising 
to  his  tongue,  was  forestalled  by  a  clamor  on 
Main  Street.  Doors  banged,  there  were  ex- 
cited calls  and  the  pounding  of  booted  feet  on 
the  board  sidewalks.  Original  leaped  from  bed 
and  ran  with  Von  Tromp  to  the  window  over- 
looking the  street. 

He  saw  a  strange  cavalcade  passing  slowly 


156      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

up  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  courthouse 
and  jail.  Uncle  Alf,  the  evangelist,  led  on 
horseback.  Behind  him,  all  mounted,  were 
three :  Hilma  Ring,  with  a  rifle  carried  in  the 
crook  of  her  left  arm,  a  villainous-looking  man 
bound  as  to  arms  and  feet  noosed  under  his 
horse's  belly,  and  Zang  Whistler  of  the  Spout 
with  a  bandaged  right  hand  gripping  his  bridle, 
and  in  his  left,  carried  easily  on  the  saddle 
horn,  a  .45. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  all-night  ride  of  the  Killer's  three  cap- 
tors in  from  the  remote  foothills  by  the  Spout 
to  Two  Moons  had  been  a  grinding  ordeal  for 
the  girl  at  least.  She  had  not  tasted  food  since 
the  morning  before ;  many  miles  on  the  back  of 
the  scrubby  Christian  had  taken  their  toll  of 
her  strength.  It  was  Zang  who  had  insisted 
they  dismount  a  few  miles  outside  of  town 
when  the  dawn  was  first  beginning  to  spread 
her  jewels  in  the  east  so  that  the  girl  might 
snatch  a  few  hours  of  sleep.  This  she  did,  her 
head  pillowed  on  her  saddle;  nor  had  she 
thought  to  inquire  of  Zang's  wound,  which 
now  consumed  his  whole  arm  with  a  slow  and 
torturing  fire.  The  Killer,  grumbling  against 
his  bonds,  had  fallen  into  noisy  slumber  under 
Whistler's  watchful  eye. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  high  when  Zang  roused 
the  sleepers  and  directed  the  saddling  of  the 


158      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

horses.  Before  they  mounted  Hilma  drfew 
him  a  little  aside. 

"You  must  turn  back  here,  Zang;  if  you 
ride  into  Two  Moons  it  means  jail,  a  court 
trial,  penitentiary  —  the  end  of  everything  for 
you.     Please  turn  back  here." 

The  big  outlaw's  tired  eyes  kindled  under  her 
gaze.  Hard  lines  of  determination  etched 
themselves  across  his  features.  His  old  devil- 
may-care  smile  parted  his  lips. 

"So  you  're  still  aimin'  to  tie  loose  from  me? 
Well,  ma'am,  that 's  not  an  easy  thing  to  do 
when  Zang  Whistler's  mind 's  made  up  to 
stick.  He  builds  right  'longside  you  until  that 
time  when  the  preacher  says :  '  Do  you  take 
this  pore  sinner  for  better  'n'  worse? ' 

Hilma  looked  out  to  the  carnelian  and  ruby 
east  where  a  nest  of  clouds  over  the  Black  Hills 
had  engulfed  the  sun.  She  was  battling  with 
an  impulse  to  tell  this  man  he  was  twenty  times 
a  fool  to  run  his  neck  into  a  noose  for  her  sake. 
The  fleeting  tenderness  of  the  night  before  had 
sped  with  the  coming  of  the  day;  Hilma  was 
her  old  sure,  hard  self.  There  was  no  place  in 
her  heart  for  Zang  Whistler  or  any  man ;  yet 
a  saving  grace  of  pity  for  one  who  could  be  so 
devoted  persisted. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      159 

11  Zang,  I  never  go  back  on  a  promise.  I 
have  promised  to  come  back  to  you  at  the 
Spout.    Won't  you  wait  for  me  there?  " 

'  What 's  more,"  the  man  continued  as  if 
he  had  not  heard  her,  "  I  'm  not  taking  chances 
on  you  an'  Uncle  Alf  piloting  this  skunk  down 
Main  Street  alone.  You  can  shoot,  but  Uncle 
Alf  's  not  sure.  I  got  my  left  hand  still  ready 
for  business  in  case  some  of  these  cow  outfits 
should  start  a  rush  before  we  get  to  the  jail. 
Let 's  be  moving." 

He  arranged  the  order  of  march :  Uncle  Alf, 
unarmed,  leading;  Hilma,  with  the  Killer's 
rifle,  preceding  the  prisoner;  himself  covering 
the  rear.  So  they  traversed  the  two  divides 
separating  them  from  town  and  at  a  walk 
crossed  the  Poison  Spider  bridge.  The  wilder- 
ness road  suddenly  became  Main  Street.  They 
were  in  Two  Moons.  Three  long  blocks  away 
the  bulk  of  the  courthouse  pointed  destination. 

Zang  drew  his  .45  and  held  it  ready  on  the 
horn  of  his  saddle.  He  addressed  the  Killer 
in  front  of  him: 

"  Just  one  sign  of  a  break  an'  you  get  a 
slug  between  the  shoulders.  If  any  roach- 
maned  friend  of  yours  on  the  sidewalk  starts 
dealin'  himself  into  this  game  you  get  that 


160      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

slug  pronto.  Just  write  that  down  in  your 
little  book." 

Two  Moons  was  just  winding  up  the  bacon- 
and-flap jacks  hour.  Storekeepers  were  sweep- 
ing out.  The  saloons  were  at  the  midway  point 
between  the  lingering  all-night  trade  and  the 
morning  thirst  cutting.  Few  people  were  on 
the  street.  Few,  that  is,  when  the  cavalcade 
crossed  the  bridge,  but 

A  cow-puncher,  taking  his  morning  wash 
at  a  horse  trough,  looked  up  through  stream- 
ing strands  of  hair,  saw  a  woman  of  dazzling 
beauty  with  a  rifle  held  carelessly  in  the  crook 
of  her  arm  riding  ahead  of  a  bound  man,  saw 
Zang  Whistler  of  Teapot  Spout  coolly  riding 
behind  with  his  left  hand  ready  for  business. 
The  cow-puncher  emitted  a  surprised  whoop 
and  ducked  backward  into  a  saloon  to  possess 
himself  of  his  gun.  The  clerk  taking  down  the 
shutters  from  the  windows  of  the  Boston  Cash 
Store  stood  open-mouthed  at  the  spectacle, 
then  dashed  into  a  neighboring  store  to  spread 
the  word  that  "something's  doing  —  big!" 
Men  ran  hatless  out  of  the  hotel,  from  the 
saloons,  out  of  the  depths  of  livery  stables.  A 
rider  who  happened  to  be  turning  a  corner  at 
a  sharp  swerve  almost  bumped  into  Uncle  Alf , 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      161 

then  pulled  his  bronc  back  on  to  his  haunches 
and  sat  pop-eyed. 

Every  cow-punch  in  town  recognized  Zang 
Whistler  on  the  instant.  A  few  knew  the  name 
of  the  scowling  man  who  rode  trussed  just 
ahead  of  the  ugly  muzzle  of  Zang's  .45.  But 
a  very  few  recognized  the  white  face  of  the  girl 
who  carried  the  rifle  so  easily  snuggled  into  the 
crook  of  her  left  arm. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  the  prodigy 
of  Zang  Whistler's  daring  to  come  to  Two 
Moons  stirred  the  town  deepest  or  the  sight  of 
the  strange  girl  escorting  a  prisoner.  Surely 
something  big  was  afoot.  The  Big  Country 
had  plumped  a  cardinal  event  smack  into  the 
lap  of  the  town. 

It  was  a  withered  little  weasel  in  faded 
overalls  —  some  nonentity  in  from  a  sheep 
camp  —  who  exploded  the  biggest  bombshell. 
He  gave  one  searching  look  at  the  bloated  face 
of  the  prisoner  and  then  screamed  for  all  Main 
Street  to  hear: 

"It's  the  Killer!     Look  at  the 

!" 

"  The  Killer!  — the  Killer!  "  sped  the  word 
from  mouth  to  mouth  down  the  double  row  of 
wooden   awnings  flanking  the   broad   street. 


1 62      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

The  hunting  cry  had  the  baying  timbre  of  the 
wolf  pack.  Women  took  it  up  with  shrill 
voices.    Main  Street  was  seething. 

Still  onward  rode  the  cavalcade  toward  the 
courthouse.  Uncle  Alf  held  his  head  high, 
casting  an  eagle  glance  from  sidewalk  to  side- 
walk. Hilma,  every  nerve  taut  as  a  drumhead, 
kept  her  eyes  jumping  from  figure  to  figure 
along  the  route,  watching  for  a  single  move  of 
a  hand  to  a  holster.  The  Killer's  face  had 
gone  fish  white;  he  swayed  slightly  in  his  sad- 
dle as  if  under  the  assaults  of  sound  waves 
become  propulsive.  Zang  Whistler,  come  for 
the  first  time  in  his  outlawry  to  the  domain  of 
law,  rode  easily  and  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
lurking  in  his  eyes. 

The  crowd  fell  in  behind  the  heels  of  Zang's 
horse  and  followed  to  the  courthouse.  But  at 
a  respectful  distance,  for  ever  and  again  Zang 
would  cause  his  horse  to  swerve  broadside  on 
to  the  hurly-burly  behind  and  would  run  a 
swift  eye  over  the  forward  rank.  Always  his 
.45  was  resting  easily  on  his  saddle  horn. 

Sheriff  Red  Agnew  in  his  shirt  sleeves  came 
tumbling  out  of  the  wing  of  the  courthouse 
where  he  lodged  —  for  he  was  chief  jailer  as 
well  as  sheriff.    Him  Zang  greeted  cordially: 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      163 

"  Sorry  to  bring  in  such  an  onery  lookin' 
prisoner,  Red,  but  it 's  the  best  we  could  find. 
Folks  call  him  the  Killer.  Uncle  Alf  here 
picked  him  up  while  he  's  lookin'  for  specimens 
of  human  souls  for  his  collection." 

Red  Agnew,  moving  in  a  haze  of  stupefac- 
tion, unlocked  and  threw  back  the  heavy  door 
to  the  jail  yard  behind  a  ten- foot  spiked  fence. 
While  Two  Moons  stood  breathless  the  Killer 
and  his  escorts  rode  in  and  the  heavy  gate 
banged  behind  them, 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Hardly  had  the  gate  of  the  prison  yard 
closed  against  the  crowd  when  Hilma  swayed 
in  her  saddle  and  would  have  fallen  had  Zang 
not  pushed  his  horse  to  her  side  and  caught  her 
in  his  unwounded  arm.  The  strain  of  that  ride 
through  town,  following  more  than  twelve 
hours  in  the  saddle,  had  sapped  the  girl's  re- 
sistance to  the  last  nerve  volt.  For  a  minute 
she  wavered  on  the  border  line  of  hysteria, 
then  she  straightened  with  a  scowl  stamped  be- 
tween her  eyes,  a  scowl  for  her  own  weakness. 

"  That  comes  of  being  a  woman,"  she  whis- 
pered fiercely  as  Zang  helped  her  to  dismount. 
Sheriff  Agnew's  wife  —  a  florid  giantess  with 
the  features  of  a  nursing  sister  —  was  now  in 
the  yard;  she  urged  Hilma  to  "  come  in  and 
get  a  bracer  right  this  minute" ,  but  the  girl 
would  not  quit  the  scene  until  she  knew  what 
might  be  the  Sheriff's  disposition  not  only  of 
the  prisoner  but  of  Zang  and  herself.     The 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      165 

gate  banging  behind  her,  the  high  spiked  wall 
and  the  barred  windows  in  the  side  of  the  court- 
house building  so  near  her,  all  these  things  of 
a  sudden  spelled  menace,  a  threat  direct  against 
her.  The  spirit  of  outlawry  that  had  grown 
within  her  these  past  few  days  of  tumbled  inci- 
dents was  potent  to  make  her  believe  the  law's 
eyes  could  read  outlawry  on  her  features. 

Uncle  Alf  was  holding  forth  as  Sheriff  Ag- 
new  busied  himself  loosing  the  rope  that  held 
the  Killer's  legs  under  the  horse's  belly. 
Sonorously  and  with  frequent  interjection  of 
Biblical  quotation  the  evangelist  detailed  how 
the  calling  in  the  wilderness  had  directed  him 
to  the  man  of  blood.  As  for  the  Killer,  his 
ugly  face  registered  manifest  relief  that  the 
passage  of  Main  Street  had  been  concluded 
with  no  unhappy  consequences  to  his  person. 
He  appreciated  keenly  what  might  be  the  tem- 
per of  the  town  toward  him. 

"  Now,"  quoth  Agnew,  "  just  you  folks  hop 
into  the  house  with  the  missis  and  get  a  feed  of 
hot  cakes  and  some  coffee  while  I  lock  this  bird 
into  a  cell."  Hospitality  possessed  his  voice; 
there  was  no  hint  of  a  lurking  sense  of  official 
duty  which  might  carry  beyond  the  disposition 
of  the  prisoner. 


1 66      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  satisfying  break- 
fast when  Red  Agnew  came  in  and  sat  down 
at  the  table  with  them.  He  had  to  hear  all  over 
again  the  story  of  the  Killer's  capture.  He  was 
tremendously  pleased. 

"  Strayman,  the  district  attorney,  is  going 
to  be  mighty  tickled  over  this,"  he  commented, 
"  and  I  reckon  certain  people  down  in  Chey- 
enne who  've  been  settling  lump  cash  for  every 
stone  found  on  a  dead  man's  forehead  are  go- 
ing to  hunt  cover.  We  '11  drag  a  confession  out 
of  this  Killer  which  '11  bust  the  State  wide  open. 
We  '11  have  a  whale  of  a  fight  on  our  hands  to 
swing  him  off  a  gallows."  Then,  suddenly 
linking  Hilma  with  the  events  that  had  made 
the  Killer  such  a  fat  prize  to  the  law's  net :  "  I 
need  not  tell  you,  ma'am,  your  dad  met  his 
death  while  doing  his  duty.  He  was  a  good 
citizen,  and  I  'm  mighty  sorry  he  had  to  check 
in  because  he  was  serving  the  law  as  he  saw  it 
his  duty  to  do." 

Breakfast  finished,  a  heavy  embarrassment 
fell  upon  the  little  company  in  the  cheery  room. 
With  the  exception  of  the  self-centered  Uncle 
Alf,  each  was  wondering  just  what  the  next 
move  would  be,  how  inevitable  circumstances 
would  befall.    A  much-sought-for  outlaw  un- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      167 

der  a  score  of  indictments  breakfasts  with  a 
sheriff,  then 

"  I  see  you  got  a  game  hand,  Zang,"  said 
Agnew  with  forced  comradery.  "  Something 
recent?  " 

"  Oh,  just  what  you  might  call  a  accident," 
was  Zang's  careless  answer.  "  But  the  fever  's 
got  in  it  some  an' " 

"  I  '11  just  run  round  and  fetch  Doc  Bowers 
over  to  give  a  look  at  it,"  the  sheriff  was  quick 
to  interpose.  "  You  folks  just  make  yourself 
comfortable;  I  won't  be  gone  ten  minutes." 

"  No  call  for  you  to  take  that  trouble,  Red," 
Zang  ventured  hesitantly;  "  I  could  amble  over 
to  the  doc's  an'  then  —  come  back." 

"  Not  with  that  crowd  outside,  Zang. 
Reckon  the  town 's  pretty  fired  up,  and  I 
wouldn't  want  you  to  get  into  a  jam  with 
some  cow-punch,  more  especial  since  you  'd 
have  to  use  your  left  hand." 

Sheriff  Agnew  cast  a  covert  glance  toward 
Hilma,  then  let  his  eyes  return  to  Zang  with 
a  significant  lifting  of  the  brows.  Plainly  he 
felt  the  presence  of  the  girl  a  bar  to  plain 
speaking. 

"  I  '11  just  mosey  outside  in  the  yard  an' 
see  how  my  little  hoss  has  stood  up  under  a 


1 68      Trails   to    Two   Moons 

purty  long  spell  of  work,"  Zang  drawled.  Ag- 
new  accompanied  the  outlaw  out  of  the  room. 

"  Well? "  queried  Zang,  when  they  had 
walked  down  a  hallway  out  of  earshot  of  the 
dining  room. 

"  Nothing  to  it,  Zang.  I'll  have  to  lock  you 
up,"  Agnew  declared  heavily.  "  You  sorta 
caught  me  between  wind  and  water  riding  into 
town  this  way.  What  was  the  main  idea  ?  You 
know  I  haven't  been  wearing  myself  to  a  frazzle 
trying  to  serve  any  warrants  out  against  you  — 
and  I  've  got  enough  to  paper  a  room  with." 

"  Well,  you  see,  Red,  I  just  had  to  do  it. 
That  girl " 

"  Oh,  I  savvy!  Well,  I  don't  rightly  blame 
you,  Zang.  Fella  would  ride  plumb  into  a 
Sioux  war  party  trailing  eyes  like  hers  —  and, 
say,  that  hair  she  wears !  " 

"  Don't  get  me  wrong,  Red,"  Zang  cor- 
rected. "  I  count  'bout  as  high  as  a  trey  spot 
in  a  sanded  pack  with  her,  but  since  her  pappy 
died  she  's  sorta  got  in  a  jam  with  Original  Bill 
an'  I  was  aimin'  to  break  trail  for  her  through 

all  this  range  war.    Now "  He  lifted  his 

shoulders  and  smiled  wearily. 

"  You  see  where  I  stand,  Zang,"  Agnew 
urged.     "  All  the  cattle  outfits  roaring  their 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      169 

heads  off  they  can't  get  protection  against  your 
boys,  can't  get  an  even  break  with  the  sheriff 
or  with  the  district  attorney.  If  I  was  to  meet 
up  with  you  somewhere  out  in  the  country,  of 
course  I  could  say  you  were  too  many  for  me 
and  got  away.  But  when  you  prance  right  up 
to  the  jail,  even  riding  herd  on  a  bad  man  badly 
wanted  like  the  Killer,  why  —  there 's  no 
choice  for  me.     I  '11  let  you  go  back  and  stay 

with  the  girl  until  I  fetch  Doc  Bowers  if " 

"No,  do  it  now,"  Zang  suddenly  com- 
manded. "  I  got  no  call  to  make  any  lingering 
farewells  like  a  East  Lynn  actor  in  a  theater 
show.  But  just  promise  you  '11  steer  her  right 
if  Original  starts  buildin'  any  trouble  for  her 
—  which  I  don't  reckon  he  '11  do,  he  not  bein' 
a  woman  fighter.  Come  on,  Red;  all  I  ask  is 
pick  me  out  a  coop  not  too  near  that  Killer. 
I  don't  favor  him  none." 

Ten  minutes  later  Sheriff  Agnew,  alone, 
entered  the  dining  room  where  sat  Hilma  and 
Uncle  Alf  with  their  sunny  hostess,  Mrs.  Ag- 
new. The  sheriff  made  a  great  pretense  of 
covering  the  circumstances  of  Zang's  absence 
.  with  a  noisy  command  that  his  wife  instantly 
bundle  the  girl  off  to  bed;  she  could  hardly 
prop  her  eyes  open,  he  vociferated. 


170      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Hilma  asked  no  questions.  The  fencing  and 
sparring  that  had  preceded  Zang  and  the  sher- 
iff's withdrawal  had  been  all  too  plain  to  her. 
She  knew  Zang  was  behind  bars. 

The  girl  suffered  bustling  Mrs.  Agnew  to 
lead  her  to  a  bedroom,  apathetically  watched 
her  pull  down  the  shades  and  put  the  coverlet 
into  place. 

"Right  round  the  clock,"  the  lady  conjured 
with  a  monitory  forefinger  from  the  door. 
"  Don't  you  dare  show  your  face  outside  this 
room  until  you  Ve  slept  right  on  till  to-mor- 
row morning,  or  I  '11  have  Red  swear  out  a 
charge  against  you." 

Once  under  the  covers,  Hilma  tried  to  focus 
her  attention  upon  a  review  of  the  circum- 
stances the  morning  had  capped :  Zang  Whis- 
tler, who  had  refused  to  leave  her  side,  now  a 
prisoner  of  the  law;  she,  homeless,  friendless, 
penniless,  in  bed  under  a  jail  roof,  and  helpless 
did  only  Original  Bill  Blunt  care  to  put  his 
name  to  a  warrant  charging  her  with  attempt 
to  do  murder. 

This  Original  Bill  with  his  mocking  black 
eyes  and  that  tantalizing  smile  —  fighter  of 
women,  tool  of  the  imperious  cattle  clan.  Oh, 
how  she  hated  him  —  hated 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  the  excite- 
ment?" queried  Von  Tromp,  looking  down 
from  the  window  of  Original's  lodgings  upon 
the  Killer  and  his  escort  on  the  way  to  the  jail. 
Original,  who  had  comprehended  the  signifi- 
cance of  Main  Street's  prodigy  in  a  single 
glance,  was  tumbling  into  his  clothes  at  top 
speed. 

"  The  man  you  were  talking  about  —  the 
Killer,"  his  answer  came  muffled  by  a  woollen 
shirt  that  was  just  slipping  over  his  head. 
"  Somebody  's  just  bringing  him  in." 

What  instinct  it  was  that  halted  Original 
from  being  more  specific  as  to  the  identities  of 
the  convoying  party  he  did  not  know.  Von 
Tromp's  order  for  a  pseudo  attack  upon  Zang 
Whistler  and  the  Spout  gang  rankled  too 
freshly  in  Original's  mind  for  him  to  volunteer 
the  information  that  Whistler  himself  was  that 


172      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

minute  boldly  riding  up  Main  Street.  Besides, 
the  range  inspector  was  jarred  far  off  his  usual 
balance  by  the  unexpected  spectacle  of  this 
outlaw  and  bitter  enemy  of  the  whole  cattle 
clan  coolly  cantering  through  town. 

As  for  Von  Tromp,  Original's  announce- 
ment that  it  was  the  Killer  who  was  prisoner 
between  the  riders  appeared  to  sweep  him  into 
a  flurry  of  excitement.  He  whirled  upon  the 
inspector. 

"  You  say  that  fellow  who  's  tied  to  his  horse 
is  the  man  who 's  been  sniping  unpopular 
sheepmen  and  marking  their  bodies  with  a  peb- 
ble between  the  eyes  ?  Good  Lord,  man,  I  must 
see  him  —  must  get  to  him  before  the  district 
attorney  begins  to  question  him.  It 's  tremen- 
dously fortunate  I  happen  to  be  in  town  just 
the  time  he  's  captured.  Blunt,  you  must  fix 
it  for  me  to  see  this  man  at  once." 

Original,  busy  strapping  his  holster  in  place 
over  his  left  breast,  paused  to  shoot  a  searching 
look  Von  Tromp 's  way. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  this  stinging 
lizard  so  bad?  Lots  of  other  men  in  this  town 
want  to  see  him,  too  —  lookin'  up  to  a  cotton- 
wood  limb  from  the  end  of  a  rope." 

"  I  'm  not  in  the  habit  of  explaining  my 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      173 

motives  to  any  man,"  Von  Tromp  said  stiffly, 
then  in  hasty  afterthought:  "The  man  cer- 
tainly will  need  counsel.  I  wish  to  advise  him 
of  his  rights  and  offer  him  my  services.  There- 
fore, Blunt,  I  want  you  to  see  the  sheriff  and 
arrange  an  audience  for  me  with  the  prisoner." 
The  man  from  Cheyenne  flushed  angrily. 

Original  was  spinning  the  chambers  of  his 
.45,  the  hammer  held  back  by  a  thumb  which 
suddenly  appeared  to  Von  Tromp  all  too  in- 
secure in  its  hold.  He  slipped  the  weapon  un- 
der the  spring  on  the  pad  holster  and  donned 
his  jacket  before  answering. 

"Mr.  Von  Tromp,  I  don't  borrow  nothin' 
but  bad  luck  and  lightnin'  and  I  never  was 
raised  a  pet,  so  I  don't  make  it  a  point  to  balk 
at  most  orders  howsomever  they  come.  But 
this  time  I  pass.  Looks  to  me  like  it  would  n't 
put  new  paint  on  your  reputation  nor  on  mine 
especial  to  have  me  dancin'  up  to  Red  Agnew 
an'  begging  an  invitation  for  you  to  come  down 
an'  take  tea  with  the  Killer.  Nobody  knows 
you  for  a  representative  of  —  well,  of  certain 
people,  but  the  minute  they  see  me  hooked  up 
with  a  lawyer  who  wants  to  break  into  the 
Killer,  they  '11  know  it 's  true." 

"What  is  true?"  Von  Tromp  challenged. 


174      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Original  stepped  close  to  him  and  gave  him  the 
answer  fairly  between  the  eyes: 

"  That  the  people  who  hire  you  and  hire  me 
have  been  paying  for  little  stones  on  dead 
men's  foreheads." 

The  lawyer's  face  went  white  with  rage.  His 
wide  mouth  opened  and  shut  like  a  landed  mul- 
let's in  an  effort  to  frame  phrases  for  his  wrath. 
Finally : 

"  Who  has  bought  you,  Blunt?  Who  has 
reached  you  with  money  to  turn  traitor  to  your 
people  and  accuse  them  of  being  hirers  of 
murder?  " 

Original's  voice  dropped  very  low;  several 
men  who  once  ranged  the  Big  Country  had 
learned  to  their  sorrow  that  when  he  purred 
thus  his  gun  hand  was  about  to  leap : 

"  Mr.  Von  Tromp,  my  price  is  so  high 
there  's  no  lawyer  walking  in  tanned  leather 
yet  raised  it.  You  're  lookin'  white,  Mr.  Von 
Tromp  —  sorta  fish-bellied.  The  air  in  this 
room's  kind  of  close  —  for  two." 

Von  Tromp  read  the  meaning  in  the  other's 
concluding  words  without  ambiguity.  He  took 
his  hat  from  the  door  knob  and  tramped  down- 
stairs to  the  street.  Original,  absently  twid- 
dling tobacco  in  paper  between  the  fingers  of 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      175 

his  right  hand,  watched  from  the  window  his 
recent  visitor  cross  the  street  and  turn  in  the 
direction  of  the  jail. 

11  House  pets  like  that  ought  n't  run  loose 
in  this  man's  country  'thout  a  bell  tied  under 
their  chins,"  he  mused  aloud.  Then  he,  too, 
went  down  to  the  street,  for  Original  knew  the 
issues  of  this  day  would  bulk  large,  and  no 
man  might  foresee  their  outcome. 

Into  the  froth  of  Two  Moons'  bubbling  pot, 
near  noon,  rode  another,  bringing  added  spice 
to  the  already  high  savor  of  the  broth  of  ex- 
citement. It  was  Woolly  Annie,  the  sheep 
queen  of  Poison  Spider,  accompanied  by  her 
hopeful  son  Dolphus  and  a  sheep  foreman  of 
forbidding  appearance.  Greatly  altered  was 
the  lady's  mien  from  that  riotous  mood  of 
elephantine  joy  which  had  possessed  her  when 
she  rode  out  of  Two  Moons  a  few  days  before. 
Her  expansive  features  were  clotted  into  a 
thundercloud  whence  lightning  flashes  from 
the  eyes  warned  of  a  general  low  pressure  and 
storm  conditions.  The  set  of  her  great  span 
of  shoulders  and  poise  of  her  huge  head  both 
cried  to  Two  Moons  that  somebody  weighing 
about  one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  and 


176      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

wearing  overalls  beneath  a  courtesy  skirt  was 
on  the  warpath  with  her  scalp  lock  roached. 

The  three  pulled  rein  at  the  hitching  bar 
before  the  Occidental  and  before  she  dis- 
mounted Woolly  Annie  called  to  an  acquaint- 
ance on  the  sidewalk  in  a  great  voice: 

"  Anybody  seen  them  two  rickety  doodle 
bugs,  Timberline  Todd  and  Andy  Dorson, 
hidin'  under  a  wet  log  hereabouts?  For  if 
anybody  has,  just  lead  me  to  'em  so  's  I  can 
take  'em  apart  an'  examine  into  their  systems, 
pronto." 

Immediately  a  crowd  gathered,  for  Two 
Moons  was  in  a  state  of  nerves  this  day  and 
ready  to  stampede  at  the  popping  of  a  sarsa- 
parilla  bottle.  Woolly  Annie  did  not  play 
upon  the  crowd's  expectancy;  she  unbosomed 
herself  immediately  and  in  rumbling  organ 
tones  of  wrath: 

"  Three  nights  ago,  me  play  in'  horse  here  in 
Two  Moons  an'  enjoying  myself  like  a  new- 
born schoolgirl  because  I  thought  I  didn't 
have  an  enemy  in  the  world  outside  ten  or  a 
dozen  I  could  name  offhand,  an'  what  happens  ? 
Timberline  Todd,  Andy  Dorson  an'  ten  other 
crawlin'  kiotes  from  the  cattle  outfits  ride  out 
to  my  range  on  Poison  Spider,  shoot  up  two 


Trails  to   Two   Moons      177 

sheep  wagons  before  burning  'em  an'  then 
shoot  down  an'  stampede  two  sheep  bands." 

The  shepherdess  of  Poison  Spider  caught 
the  glimmerings  of  an  exultant  grin  on  the  face 
of  a  bow-legged  man  with  chaps  who  stood  on 
the  fringe  of  the  crowd.  She  pilloried  him 
with  a  forefinger  thick  as  a  thole  pin. 

"  Ye-ah,  grin,  you  pore  orphan  idjit!  Big 
joke,  ain't  it?  Purty  rich,  I  call  it,  to  ride  out 
to  my  sheep  range  an'  bust  up  two  bands  of 
nigh  onto  twelve  hundred  muttons.  Well, 
my  men  you  shot  at  an'  hogtied  recognized  five 
of  your  merry  companions,  an'  if  there  's  a 
grand  jury  in  this  town  with  guts  into  'em,  a 
passel  of  sheep  killers  is  goin'  be  inside 
Rawlins  pen  lookin'  out  before  long.  You ! " 
—  the  lady's  wrath  nearly  suffocated  her  — 
"  hear  me  hang  up  my  honk!  Only  thing  the 
matter  with  this  town,  there 's  not  enough 
funerals,  an'  the  funeral  industry  's  going  to 
be  flourishin'  right  soon." 

A  sympathetic  murmur  from  the  crowd 
caused  the  man  with  the  chaps  to  erase  him- 
self from  the  immediate  vicinity  with  some 
celerity.  Woolly  Annie  stiffly  dismounted  and, 
with  the  fan-eared  Dolphus  and  the  black- 
visaged  foreman  as  escort,  she  made  her  jour- 


178      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

ney  afoot  up  the  street  to  the  sheriff's  office,  a 
veritable  pilgrimage  of  Dido  crying  revenge 
against  the  despoilers  of  her  kingdom. 

Not  only  did  Main  Street  hear  of  the  out- 
rage against  the  sheep  queen  but  —  what  was 
a  far  more  potent  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of 
the  townsfolk  —  that  one  of  the  slaughtered 
bands  had  been  the  property  of  Hilma  Ring, 
the  girl  left  orphaned  by  the  Killer's  cowardly 
shot,  the  very  girl  whom  that  morning  Two 
Moons  had  seen  grimly  riding  in  ahead  of  the 
murderer.  Close  to  six  hundred  of  her  sheep 
had  been  either  slaughtered  or  dispersed  be- 
yond all  effort  at  a  round-up. 

Woolly  Annie,  in  her  turn,  received  news  as 
startling  as  she  dispensed:  That  Hilma  Ring, 
together  with  Zang  Whistler  and  Uncle  Alf, 
had  brought  in  the  Killer ;  that  all  of  them  had 
entered  the  jail  yard  and  none  been  seen  since. 
The  mother  of  the  promising  nine  on  Poison 
Spider's  head-waters  heaved  a  great  sigh  of 
relief  at  the  information.  She  said  her  boy 
Dolphus  had  ridden  over  to  the  Ring  home 
ranch  on  Teapot  to  tell  Hilma  of  the  moving 
of  her  band,  had  found  the  cabin  deserted  and 
evidences  of  a  struggle  therein. 

Here  was  a  fresh  angle  on  the  mystery  of  the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      179 

morning's  cavalcade  through  Main  Street. 
Signs  of  a  struggle  in  the  girl's  cabin!  Then 
maybe  she  had  caught  the  Killer  single-handed 
when  he  came  to  complete  his  work  of  wiping 
out  the  Ring  family  and  single-handed  had 
overpowered  him ! 

Supposition  became  cold  fact  before  it  had 
rolled  from  two  tongues.  From  eating  house 
to  saloon  and  saloon  to  general  store  the  elec- 
tric report  sped.  Cattlemen  had  slaughtered 
twelve  hundred  sheep  in  a  night,  half  of  them 
belonging  to  the  Ring  girl ;  Hilma  Ring,  alone 
on  Teapot  Creek,  had  been  visited  by  the  Killer 
and  had  battled  him  into  subjection.  Hilma 
had  been  wounded.  The  Killer  had  been 
wounded.  Somebody  had  been  wounded; 
had  not  Woolly  Annie's  boy  Dolphus  seen 
blood  all  over  the  place? 

Two  Moons  itched  and  burned  with  a  fever 
of  curiosity.  Yes,  and  deeper  —  away  down 
in  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  town  —  a  lava 
lake  of  bitter  hatred  began  to  heave  and  glow 
with  fiery  incandescence.  A  feeling  of  climax 
pulsed  through  the  air  like  the  play  of  elec- 
tricity before  a  thunderstorm.  Even  with  none 
to  proclaim  it,  all  who  were  not  of  the  cattle 
barony  sensed  that  the  time  for  settlement  of 


180      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

scores  was  come;  that  the  moment  of  hand 
grips  with  the  forces  which  operated  through 
the  Killer  and  through  the  night  slaughter  of 
sheep  was  soon  to  strike. 

Mild-tempered,  bald-headed,  little  Squirrel- 
toothed  Smiley,  who  was  the  proprietor  of  the 
Boston  Cash  Store  and  who  sang  tenor  in  the 
Two  Moons  Excelsior  Quartette,  was  seen  to 
enter  Hopkins'  hardware  store  and  purchase 
a  .45  with  a  barrel  long  as  his  forearm  and  a 
gaudy  holster  in  Mexican- worked  leather.  Old 
Man  Rogers,  president  of  the  Grangers'  Bank, 
went  out  on  the  street  and  picked  up  two  rene- 
gade cow-punchers  to  come  and  sit  just  inside 
the  door  of  his  establishment  with  their  holsters 
moved  round  to  the  front  —  and  Old  Man 
Rogers  was  notoriously  afraid  of  a  giant  fire- 
cracker. 

The  crowd  that  stood  before  the  courthouse 
kept  patient  vigil  hour  on  hour.  No  sign  from 
the  jail  or  the  sheriff's  office.  Not  a  hint  as  to 
the  four  riders  whom  the  swinging  gate  of  the 
jail  yard  had  swallowed  up. 

Woolly  Annie  was  seen  to  enter  the  main 
door  of  the  courthouse  with  her  two  attendant 
guards.  She  was  absent  from  view  about  fif- 
teen minutes,  then  reappeared  on  the  court- 


Trails   to  Two   Moons      181 

house  steps.  Fire  was  in  her  eye.  As  she 
trundled  grandly  down  the  steps  she  announced 
for  all  to  hear  that  that  pink-eyed  little  house 
rabbit,  Orpheus  C.  Strayman,  the  district  at- 
torney, had  said  he  was  too  busy  to  hear  her 
complaint  about  the  sheep  moving,  and  that 
Red  Agnew  must  be  combing  the  kinks  out  of 
his  whiskers  somewhere  because  she  could  not 
find  him.  She  opined  that  unless  she  got  some 
action  mighty  pronto  she  'd  have  to  break  into 
the  jail. 

The  curiosity  of  the  hundred  before  the 
courthouse  was  whetted  more  when  the  tall, 
frock-coated  stranger  with  the  numerous  fra- 
ternal pins,  who  had  come  in  on  the  stage  that 
morning,  elbowed  his  way  up  to  the  steps  and 
entered  the  mute  house  of  mystery.  He  was 
out  of  view  longer  than  the  sheep  queen  had 
been,  and  when  he  descended  the  steps  a  pos- 
sum's smile  betokened  the  charity  he  felt 
toward  all  mankind. 

The  crowd  could  not  know  that  Warren  Von 
Tromp's  smile  was  a  false  signal  set  on  the 
bleak  cliffs  of  his  countenance  with  purpose  to 
deceive.  The  result  of  his  fifteen  stormy  min- 
utes with  the  district  attorney  had  been  a  flat 
denial  of  access  to  the  Killer  and  a  terse  invi- 


1 82      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

tation  to  take  his  blankets  and  move  to  a  myth- 
ical bourn  of  greater  caloric  intensity  than 
Two  Moons.  Moreover,  Strayman  had  chilled 
Von  Tromp  to  the  bone  with  the  statement  that 
the  Killer  had  made  a  complete  confession  and 
did  not  want  a  lawyer  until  the  time  of  his  trial. 

Von  Tromp  wondered  and  wondered  if  this 
were  a  lie.    He  yearned  to  believe  it  was.    And 
yet  he  dared  not  let  himself  be  convinced  it . 
was  a  lie. 

One  sign  and  another  which  his  shrewd  eyes 
noted  in  his  progress  back  to  the  hotel  forced 
him  to  the  reluctant  admission  that  Original 
Bill  had  been  right  in  his  refusal  to  stand 
sponsor  for  a  strange  lawyer  come  to  offer  his 
defense  to  the  Killer.  It  would  be  distinctly 
embarrassing,  not  to  say  unhealthy,  for  the 
impression  to  spread  through  Two  Moons  at 
this  juncture  that  he,  Von  Tromp,  was  on  the 
ground  to  look  after  the  Killer's  interests.  The 
man  from  Cheyenne  quickly  reviewed  his  in- 
terview with  the  district  attorney  to  determine 
if  by  any  possible  slip  on  his  part  he  had  given 
that  peppery  official  any  clew  to  the  identity 
of  his  employers. 

Von  Tromp  sincerely  hoped  he  had  not. 
But  here  again  he  could  not  be  sure.     Stray- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      183 

man  had  impressed  him  as  a  blunt  country  oaf, 


but 

Mr.  Von  Tromp,  of  Cheyenne,  Washington 
and  London,  was  in  a  state  of  nerves  wholly 
surprising  to  one  of  his  schooled  temper. 

Perhaps  Von  Tromp  gave  Orpheus  C. 
Strayman  credit  for  much  more  acumen  than 
the  little  prosecutor  possessed.  One  element 
in  the  man's  make-up  the  wiser  lawyer  from 
Cheyenne  completely  overlooked:  Strayman 
was  careless  in  his  handling  of  the  spoken 
word. 

For  instance,  after  his  fiery  interview  with 
Von  Tromp,  Strayman  said  casually  to  his  as- 
sistant—  A-Long-Drink-of- Water  the  town 
denominated  this  spare,  rather  sickly  young 
man  —  "  Something  strange  about  that  law- 
yer from  the  outside  being  Johnny-on-the-spot 
just  when  we  've  nabbed  the  Killer." 

That  was  all  he  said ;  perhaps  that  was  the 
sum  of  what  he  thought,  for  this  was  a  day  big 
with  mental  explosions  for  Strayman.  But 
when  The-Long-Drink-of- Water  went  out  for 
his  noon  dinner  he  whispered  to  a  friend  in  the 
Rhinoceros  Eating  House  the  circumstances 
of  Von  Tromp's  visit  and  quoted  his  chief  as 
saying  there  was  something  strange  about  him. 


184      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

This  friend  hurried  to  a  saloon  where  the 
town  worthies  congregated  and  there  rehashed 
the  story  with  garnishment  of  his  own.  He 
quoted  Strayman  as  saying:  "  Dam'd  strange 
somebody  got  this  lawyer  on  the  ground  so 
quickly."     The  accent  was  on  the  somebody. 

Thence  the  ripple  spread. 

Original  Bill  had  kept  off  Main  Street  all 
morning,  for  he  sensed  the  temper  of  the  town 
and  he  was  not  one  rashly  to  tempt  trouble. 
But  his  time  had  not  been  idle.  In  that  sacro- 
sanct upper  room  of  the  Capitol  Saloon  were 
several  men  of  weight  in  the  clan,  and  council 
was  imperative.  Original  was  with  them. 
Also  Timberline  Todd  and  Andy  Dorson. 
Original,  catching  an  echo  of  the  explosion 
Woolly  Annie  had  touched  off,  had  found  the 
precious  twain  asleep  in  a  livery  stable  and 
hustled  them  through  back  alleys  to  the  Capi- 
tol's rear  entrance  and  so  to  this  innermost  cit- 
adel of  the  cowmen.  Neither  needed  injunc- 
tion to  stay  put  until  nightfall. 

To  the  men  gathered  about  the  green  baize 
table  Original  recited  everything  of  his  inter- 
view with  Von  Tromp,  coloring  details  not  at 
all  and  recounting  the  lawyer's  anxiety  con- 
cerning the  Killer  as  well  as  he  could.    It  was 


Trails  to   Two   Moons      185 

this  circumstance  and  Von  Tromp's  vehe- 
mence in  the  premises  that  brought  grave  com- 
ment from  the  gray  heads  about  the  table,  from 
men  whose  code  had  been  ever  open  fighting 
and  no  shooting  through  the  crack  of  the  door. 

"  Somebody  up  high  has  turned  bad  —  like 
a  last  year's  turkey  egg,"  was  the  opinion  of 
one.  "  I  just  did  n't  dast  to  let  myself  believe 
all  this  time  our  folks  was  paying  money  for 
killings." 

"  An'  look  where  it  puts  us  here  on  the 
range,"  growled  another.  "  We  either  got  to 
turn  against  the  higher-ups  down  to  Cheyenne 
or  make  a  play  to  turn  loose  this  thing  in  jail, 
which  most  men  shoot  under  a  barn." 

So  the  council  of  desperation  progressed. 
Men  who  felt  themselves  betrayed  by  a  differ- 
ent breed  of  men  who  knew  not  the  clean  code, 
the  strong  code  of  the  Big  Country,  saw  them- 
selves on  the  covering  line  of  the  Great  Re- 
treat —  and  fired  on  from  behind. 

Into  the  room  burst  old  Dad  Strayhorn. 
He  threw  wide  his  hands. 

"Hell's  bust!  "he  said. 

Original  was  first  downstairs  and  on  the 
sidewalk. 

Down  the  street  from  the  direction  of  the 


1 86      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

courthouse  came  the  mob.  It  filled  the  street 
from  gutter  to  gutter.  Like  the  Wood  of 
Birnam  it  came,  all  tossing  foliage  of  heads  and 
hats  and  arms  upthrust.  An  ugly  clamor  of 
cries  and  bellowings  swirled  out  from  it. 

Above  the  forefront  of  the  mob  appeared  a 
grotesque  and  agonized  figure,  hatless,  collar 
ripped  and  pronging  upward  like  a  horn,  face 
bloodied,  hands  desperately  gripped  on  some- 
thing hidden  by  the  heads  below  him. 

The  figure  was  that  of  Warren  C.  Von 
Tromp.  He  was  riding  the  top  rail  of  a  cor- 
ral. 

Original  saw  all  this  in  a  glance.  He 
stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  Main  Street 
and  stood  there  for  an  instant,  right  hand 
hanging  easily  from  the  lapel  of  his  jacket.  A 
figure  alone  in  the  path  of  the  mob,  dwarfed 
by  it  almost  to  pygmy  proportions. 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  forward  to  meet 
the  mad  hundreds. 


CHAPTER   XV 

The  mob  came  on,  tossing  its  helpless  vic- 
tim on  the  surf  of  its  passions.  Still  Original 
stood,  a  stocky  figure  of  cold  defiance  in  the 
path  of  frenzy.  He  had  shifted  his  weight  a 
little  to  his  right  foot  so  that  he  seemed  to 
slouch;  his  shoulders  sloped  slackly  forward; 
his  hat,  pushed  a  little  back  from  his  brow, 
permitted  the  sun  to  strike  down  and  illumine 
his  smiling  face.  One  with  an  eye  not  keen 
enough  to  note  the  underlying  readiness  for 
instant  action  in  this  careless  pose  would  have 
said  the  bow-legged  little  inspector  was  about 
to  strike  hands  with  an  old  acquaintance  met 
after  many  years'  separation. 

The  front  of  the  crowd  wavered  and  came  to 
a  halt  at  about  five  paces  from  the  solitary  fig- 
ure in  the  road.  The  single  will  was  playing 
upon  the  conglomerate  and  incohesive  will  of 
the  mob.  That  moment  was  come  when  the 
spirit  of  stampede  in  human  kind  is  confronted 


1 88      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

by  a  baffling  personification  of  sanity  and  finds 
itself  all  at  once  thrown  back  upon  itself. 
Original  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
He  held  up  his  left  hand  above  his  head. 

"  Boys,  you  're  goin'  to  let  this  man  go. 
You  're  goin'  turn  him  over  to  me,  and  I  prom- 
ise he  goes  out  of  town  on  to-night's  stage." 

Quick  reflexes  played  across  the  faces  in  the 
forefront  of  the  wave  of  men:  First  dazed 
beginnings  of  comprehension,  then  sneering 
defiance.  From  the  back  of  the  mob  came  im- 
patient surges  forward,  calls  to  know  what 
was  up,  why  somebody  up  yonder  was  stop- 
ping. Original  continued  to  speak  without 
passion,  almost  without  emphasis. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  why  you  're  goin'  turn 
this  man  over  to  me  on  the  promise  he  goes  out 
to-night.  It 's  because  he  's  a  pore  fool  an' 
oughtn't  to  be  runnin'  loose  in  this  man's 
town.  It's  because  he  hasn't  got  the  savvy 
the  Lord  gives  to  a  yearlin'  steer;  because  he  's 
no  more  accountable  than  a  jack  what 's  eaten 
loco  weed.  You  boys  would  n't  go  for  to  cat- 
drag  a  half-wit  out  of  an  asylum." 

"  He 's  a  lawyer  representin'  your  dam'd 
cattle  interests  come  here  to  hocus-pocus  the 
Killer  out  of  a  noose,  an'  you  know  it,  Blunt!  " 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      189 

The  challenge  came  from  a  huge  tower  of  a 
man  who  carried  one  end  of  the  corral  pole  sup- 
porting the  wretched  Van  Tromp. 

"  That 's  what  he  told  me  this  mornm'," 
Original  answered  without  heat.  "  He  told 
me  that,  an'  he  said  something  else  to  me  which 
no  man  in  his  right  mind  could  say  and  stay  in 
one  piece  all  together.  That 's  why  I  know 
he  's  not  strong  in  his  mind." 

This  surprising  confession  on  Original's 
part  —  admission  of  the  true  identity  of  the 
man  on  the  corral  rail  —  was  not  what  the  mob 
expected.  For  the  space  of  a  breath  its  leader 
was  caught  floundering. 

"  Ya-ah !  All  you  lyin'  cowmen  stand  to- 
gether —  range  inspectors  and  lawyers."  The 
challenge  came  from  somewhere  back  in  the 
core  of  crowded  bodies. 

"  Go  ahead !  Give  the  runt  a  ride  'longside 
the  lawyer !  Come  on,  boys,  dump  'em  both  in 
the  creek!"  The  jangle  of  cries  deepened 
into  a  roar.  A  thrusting  wave  from  behind 
suddenly  pushed  out  two  wings  of  the  mob  to 
right  and  left  of  the  center.  They  curved  in 
to  surround  the  solitary  figure  stemming  the 
flood.     Then  lightning  action. 

Original   leaped   backward   and   the   hand 


190       Trails   to   Two    Moons 

which  had  carelessly  hung  from  his  coat  lapel 
was  a  blur.  Those  who  had  surged  out  to  sur- 
round him  shrank  back  when  they  saw  a  cold, 
impersonal  eye  of  blue-black  steel  swinging  in 
a  slow  arc  at  the  propulsion  of  Original's  hand, 
saw  the  crooked  thumb  which  held  back  the 
hammer  so  tenuously.  The  man  who  faced 
them  was  in  a  crouch,  head  down-drawn  be- 
tween muscular  shoulders,  eyes  narrowed  to 
the  hair  trigger  of  alertness.  His  teeth  showed 
in  a  curious  grin.  Slowly,  slowly  that  hand 
directing  the  cold  eye  of  steel  swung  from  the 
hip ;  that  hypnotic  black  hole  at  the  gun's  end 
seemed  alive,  —  seemed  coldly  and  casually  to 
be  selecting  a  man  who  should  be  first  to  die. 

"  Boys,"  spoke  Original,  "  there  '11  be  quite 
a  crowd  go  with  me  —  all  pals  in  hell  together. 
Who  's  first?  " 

In  a  flash  he  had  mastered  the  mob.  Orig- 
inal sensed  this;  also  he  realized  how  brief 
would  be  his  victory. 

"  Jim  Hanscomb "  —  he  addressed  the 
giant  who  carried  on  his  shoulder  the  near  end 
of  the  corral  pole,  and  his  revolver's  snout  em- 
phasized the  selection  beyond  chance  of  equiv- 
ocation — "  Jim  Hanscomb,  you  drop  that 
pole  —  now! " 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      191 

As  if  rattler's  fangs  had  burned  his  flesh  the 
giant  leaped  from  under  the  burden-bearing 
rail.  Von  Tromp  was  pitched  almost  to  Orig- 
inal's feet.  Original,  still  covering  the  front 
rank,  groped  for  the  lawyer's  collar  and  jerked 
him  to  his  feet.  Von  Tromp  swayed  unstead- 
ily until  the  inspector's  left  arm  circled  his 
waist.  Half  supporting,  half  dragging  the 
wreck,  Original  slowly  backed  to  the  sidewalk 
and  to  the  Capitol's  door.  The  door  was 
opened  from  within,  and  hands  caught  Von 
Tromp  to  snatch  him  in.  Original  leaped  in 
behind  him. 

The  door  slammed.  The  bar  Dad  Stray- 
horn  dropped  across  it  was  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  strain  of  bodies  hurled  against  the 
heavy  panels  from  without.  A  club  crashed 
through  one  of  the  windows. 

The  dozen  or  so  beleaguered  cowmen  in  the 
saloon  closed  round  Original  and  Von  Tromp 
and  rushed  them  toward  the  back  door,  which 
gave  on  to  a  corral  and  feed  lot.  Several 
saddled  ponies  were  tethered  to  the  bars  there. 
Two  cow-punchers  mounted  and  Von  Tromp 
was  half  lifted  to  the  back  of  a  third  horse. 

"  Ride  him  to  J.  C.  Ranch  and  hold  him 
there  for  the  stage,"  was  Original's  command 


192      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

to  the  convoy;  then  to  Von  Tromp,  in  biting 
accents,  "  An'  you  tell  the  people  down  Chey- 
enne way  we  folks  on  the  range  here  don't  sit 
into  no  game  with  hired  killers  and  tin-horn 
lawyers." 

So  Warren  C.  Von  Tromp,  playing  nip  and 
tuck  with  the  first  of  the  mob  to  stream  round 
a  far  corner  of  the  alley,  went  away  from  the 
scene  of  a  vivid  and  novel  experience.  A  sad- 
der, perhaps,  but  not  a  whit  a  wiser  man. 

The  mob  spirit,  which  had  coalesced  about 
the  person  of  the  lawyer  on  mere  rumor  and 
found  itself  cowed  for  the  minute  and  cheated 
of  a  victim,  soon  was  blown  upon  by  a  great 
wind  of  provocation.  Uncle  Alf,  who  had 
snatched  a  few  hours  of  sleep  in  Sheriff  Ag- 
new's  quarters,  awoke  in  mid-afternoon  re- 
freshed and  filled  with  a  great  zeal.  ,Uncon- 
sciously  he  dodged  restraint  by  Agnew,  who 
feared  to  have  the  evangelist  abroad  to  carry 
with  his  fiery  tongue  tinder  to  the  temper  of 
the  town ;  Agnew  was  busy  with  the  district  at- 
torney, arranging  for  the  summoning  of  an 
extraordinary  grand  jury  to  indict  the  Killer 
when  Uncle  Alf  shook  sleep  from  his  eyes  and 
prepared  to  preach  crusade  to  Two  Moons. 
Mrs.  Agnew,  instructed  to  "  herd  the  old  hell- 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      193 

roarer  away  from  the  street,"  Uncle  Alf 
waved  aside  with  a  tolerant  hand. 

"  The  grapes  of  wrath  are  heavy  in  the  vine- 
yard, sister,"  he  droned  in  his  high  nasal  whine. 
"  Alpheus,  servant  of  the  Lord,  goeth  forth  to 
the  harvest." 

Forth  he  went;  straight  out  of  the  jail  door 
and  down  the  middle  of  Main  Street.  He  was 
hatless.  His  heavy  mane  of  snowy  hair  lifted 
high  from  his  forehead  and  fell  over  his  ears 
to  mingle  with  a  cascading  beard.  From  the 
tangle  of  beard  his  eyes,  deep-set  in  hollows 
under  a  hawk's  beak  of  a  nose,  glowed  hot  as 
slag  in  a  retort.  He  strode  raptly,  as  one  fol- 
lowing some  sign  in  the  heavens ;  his  head  was 
tilted  back,  and  his  gnarled  old  hands  were 
stretched  before  him  as  the  hands  of  a  groping 
child  in  the  dark.  A  fearsome  man  out  of  the 
wilderness,  he;  another  John  Baptist,  come  to 
cry:  "Make  straight  the  way."  In  Main 
Street's  inflamed  imagination  the  appearance 
of  this  apocalyptic  figure  carried  the  awesome 
savor  of  divine  intervention;  here  was  the  raw 
spirit  of  the  wilderness  made  manifest. 

Uncle  Alf  strode  down  the  middle  of  the 
street  a  full  block,  seeing  no  one,  seemingly 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  any  man.     At 


194      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

the  first  corner  he  paused  and  shot  both  arms 
high  above  his  head. 

"Woe!"  he  screamed  in  a  terrifying  fal- 
setto.    "  Woe  to  the  taskmasters !  " 

He  could  make  no  forward  step,  for  now  the 
crowd  was  about  him,  pressing  close,  volleying 
questions:  Where  was  Zang  Whistler;  what 
had  become  of  the  girl  with  the  yellow  hair; 
and  what  of  the  Killer?  Uncle  Alf  professed 
to  be  aware  of  the  crowd's  presence  for  the  first 
time.  He  looked  dazedly  about  the  ring  of  in- 
tent faces.  He  swept  his  hand  through  his 
beard. 

"  Are  ye  avengers  of  the  blood  of  the  inner- 
cent?  "  he  demanded  thunderously.  Eager- 
ness prompted  assent  even  from  those  who  did 
not  grasp  his  meaning.  "  Then,"  commanded 
the  evangelist,  "  prepare  ye  for  the  day  of 
reckoning,  for  I,  even  I,  Alpheus,  servant  of 
the  Lord,  am  sent  to  lead  against  the  might 
of  the  usurpers.  Their  murderers  lurk  in  the 
hedges,  an'  their  horned  cattle  tromp  down  my 
people's  corn.  My  sheep  they  slay  in  the 
night." 

Impatience  had  to  abide  Uncle  Alf's  cir- 
cumlocutions and  restrain  itself  to  interpret 
his  phraseology  in  terms  of  the  present,  but  in 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      195 

time  Main  Street  had  his  whole  story  of  the 
calling  which  led  him  to  the  Killer  and  how 
Hilma  and  Whistler  had  come  out  of  the  dark 
to  help  him  bring  the  murderer  to  justice. 
The  girl,  he  told  them,  was  sleeping  in  the 
sheriff's  house;  the  Killer  was  behind  bars;  as 
for  Whistler,  he  was  not  sure  what  had  become 
of  him;  he  had  been  swallowed  up.  Urgings 
produced  nothing  more  specific  than  this  in  re- 
gard to  Whistler,  plainly  the  hero  and  dar- 
ling of  the  town. 

Uncle  Alf  irked  when  he  was  drawn  from 
his  mood  of  rapt  exhortation,  and  he  returned 
to  it  as  speedily  as  he  could.  Here  was  none 
of  that  indifference  to  his  call  for  crusade  he 
had  encountered  among  the  Basin's  silent  folk ; 
here,  his  preacher's  quick  sense  of  gauging  an 
audience  told  him,  was,  in  truth,  a  stringed  in- 
strument for  him  to  play  upon.  The  wilder- 
ness seer  launched  upon  his  most  terrific  jere- 
miad against  the  cattle  barons.  Somebody 
had  whispered  to  him  the  fresh  tale  of  the 
sheep  moving  on  Poison  Spider;  that  Hilma 
Ring  had  lost  six  hundred  sheep  in  a  night. 
The  shrewd  exhorter  snatched  at  this  for  a 
text:  How  the  oppressors  of  the  small  people 
had  robbed  this  lily  among  thorns  —  so  he  de- 


196      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

nominated  her  —  first  of  her  father,  then  of 
her  substance. 

"  With  these  hands  "  —  he  shook  them  high 
above  his  head  —  "  with  these  hands  I  made 
the  coffin  for  to  bury  Ole  Man  Ring  in,  whiles 
his  orphan  darter  digs  the  grave  among  God's 
wild  bloomin'  flowers  that 's  to  contain  his 
poor  clay.  An'  there  —  there,  my  brothers, 
out  yander  on  Teapot  Creek,  where  the  rav- 
enin'  wolf  whelps  his  kind  an'  the  buzzard  of 
the  air  calls  to  his  mate  from  on  high,  I  left  her 
alone  under  the  protection  of  a  pitying  God." 

In  the  lump  of  the  mob  conscience  Uncle 
Alf 's  bitter  leaven  worked  swiftly  and  with  a 
sure  ferment.  Shadows  lengthened  across 
Main  Street,  and  still  he  talked.  Orange  and 
purple  twilight  came  flooding  down  from  the 
dike  of  the  Broken  Horns,  yet  that  organ  voice 
pealed  on.     Main  Street  seethed. 

Near  dark  certain  men  whom  the  sheriff 
had  tapped  on  the  arm  and  summoned  to  his 
office  —  twenty  in  all  —  appeared  suddenly  on 
Main  Street  in  front  of  the  courthouse.  Each 
had  a  white  handkerchief  tied  about  his  right 
arm.     Each  carried  a  rifle. 

Near  dark,  too,  groups  of  riders  began  to 
converge  on  the  roads  leading  from  the  Big 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      197 

Country  into  Two  Moons.  Strong  men,  des- 
perate men,  to  whom  had  come  word  of  events 
in  the  town.  Men  of  the  cattle  clan  from  all 
the  ranges  were  riding  to  town  to  see  what  they 
could  see. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

Hilma  Ring  did  not  obey  Ma  Agnew's  in- 
junction to  sleep  round  the  clock.  On  the 
contrary,  long  before  the  dictated  span,  she 
came  broad  awake  with  that  wrenching  jar 
back  to  consciousness  which  leaves  one  trem- 
bling and  with  a  fear  shadow  inherited  from  our 
ancestors,  the  tree  folk,  —  a  vague  terror  of 
things  unseen  in  a  half-formed  world.  Suffo- 
cating darkness  engulfed  her.  Not  a  ray  of 
light  anywhere.  Not  a  sound.  No  tangible 
bound  of  demarcation  between  the  world  of 
unconsciousness  and  the  domain  of  sentient 
life. 

The  waking  terror  abided  with  her  as  she  lay 
moveless  and  forced  her  mind  to  orientate  it- 
self there  in  the  blackness.  Bit  by  bit  the  pic- 
tures of  past  days'  adventures  fell  into  a 
pattern  as  bits  of  glass  in  the  barrel  of  a  kalei- 
doscope emerge  from  chaos  to  geometric  exact- 
ness.    Particularly  did  the  events  just  prececj- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      199 

ing  her  sleeping  bulk  large  and  assume  signifi- 
cance unguessed  when  her  mind  was  numbed 
by  fatigue  and  the  strain  of  convoying  the 
Killer  through  Two  Moons'  Main  Street.  As 
the  girl  lay  in  bed,  drawing  long,  slow  breaths 
—  the  conscious  act  of  breathing  assisted  her 
to  confirmation  of  the  belief  she  really  was 
awake  —  as  she  lay  thus,  her  mind  leaped  to 
find  deductions  for  the  present  out  of  the  im- 
mediate past. 

She  was  under  a  jail  roof,  or  she  had  been 
when  she  went  to  sleep,  and  a  groping  hand 
identified  the  bed  as  the  same  in  which  she  had 
laid  herself  down.  Zang  Whistler  also  was  un- 
der the  same  roof,  but  behind  bars ;  of  that  the 
girl  was  certain.  This  big- voiced  sheriff  with  the 
suave  manner  of  hospitality  had  spirited  Zang 
from  the  breakfast  table  to  a  cell  without  even 
permitting  Zang  a  farewell  word  with  her. 
Then  right  away  he  had  insisted  she  should  go 
to  bed. 

Hilma's  body  suddenly  stiffened  under  the 
thrust  of  a  thought  powerful  as  a  blow.  She 
was  in  jail  —  arrested! 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  The 
suave  sheriff  and  his  wife  simply  had  conspired 
to  effect  the  trick  without  a  possible  scene,  first 


200      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

removing  Zang  Whistler  beyond  power  of  pro- 
test, then  neatly  trapping  her. 

So  Original  Bill  Blunt,  the  range  inspector, 
had  indeed  sworn  out  a  warrant  against  her  as 
Zang  had  said  he  might ;  assault  with  intent  to 
kill,  —  was  that  the  way  Zang  had  said  it 
would  read? 

The  girl  leaped  from  bed  and  began  grop- 
ing. Her  hands  encountered  a  wall.  Noise- 
lessly she  felt  her  way,  hand  over  hand,  along 
this  wall.  The  stiff  cambric  of  a  window 
shade  touched  her  fingers.  She  pulled  one 
edge  away  from  the  window  and  looked  out. 
A  window,  sure  enough,  framing  lighter  dark 
without  by  its  sash.  She  could  see  lights  in  a 
house  some  distance  away  and  the  faint  line  of 
willows  along  a  creek  bed.  Also,  she  noted 
there  were  no  bars  across  her  window. 

Absence  of  bars  did  not  shake  her  belief  she 
was  a  prisoner.  Evidently,  Hilma  reasoned, 
there  was  no  provision  for  women  prisoners  in 
the  jail,  and  the  sheriff  had  locked  her  in  this 
room  temporarily,  trusting  to  her  innocence 
concerning  his  intention  to  hold  her  as  suffi- 
cient assurance  against  escape. 

The  panic  that  gripped  her  slowly  gave  way 
to  determination  to  escape  while  opportunity 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      201 

offered.  Hilma  did  not  know  what  the  hour 
might  be;  the  lights  she  saw  through  the  win- 
dow indicated  it  could  not  be  after  midnight,  at 
least.  She  guessed  the  sheriff  and  his  wife 
were  abed.     There  was  a  chance. 

Very  gingerly  the  girl  raised  the  shade  just 
enough  to  lighten  the  solid  blackness  of  the 
room.  By  this  uncertain  light  she  groped  for 
her  clothes  and  hastily  donned  them.  She 
wondered  what  had  become  of  her  precious 
bundle,  —  the  apron-bound  tin  box  containing 
her  father's  sheep  books  and  the  photograph 
of  a  bridal  couple.  Wherever  it  might  be,  no 
chance  to  look  for  it  now. 

Fully  dressed,  Hilma  stepped  to  the  win- 
dow and  groped  for  the  lock.  She  cautiously 
threw  it  back  and  raised  the  window  by  inches, 
shrinking  at  the  dry  squeaking  the  sash  made 
in  its  groove.  Now  she  had  the  lower  sash 
raised  full  length.  She  leaned  over  the  sill 
and  looked  down.  Perhaps  ten  feet  below  was 
the  darker  shadow  of  the  ground.  She  care- 
fully climbed  through  the  window,  lowered 
herself  by  her  hands  gripped  on  the  sill, 
swayed  for  an  instant,  then  dropped. 

Just  as  she  landed  in  a  heap  on  the  ground, 
the  girl  heard  a  rifle  shot,  sharp  and  clear;  then 


202      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

another  and  another.  The  fusillade  seemed  to 
come  from  the  other  side  of  the  courthouse 
building  —  from  the  street  side.  Hilma  de- 
cided she  had  let  herself  out  of  a  room  at  the 
rear  of  the  sheriff's  quarters,  for  there  was  no 
fence  in  sight,  just  prairie. 

Now  a  single  hoarse  cry  and  two  more  shots ; 
then  the  sound  of  rapid  hoofs. 

Hilma  bent  double  and  started  on  a  run  for 
the  distant  line  of  willows  marking  the  creek's 
course.  She  had  no  definite  plan  except  that 
of  the  instant,  which  was  to  put  as  much 
ground  as  possible  between  herself  and  the 
jail.  Her  fear-goaded  imagination  credited 
the  shots  to  the  sheriff's  discovery  of  her 
escape;  he  was  summoning  a  posse  or  some- 
thing like  that  to  scour  the  town  in  search  of 
her. 

She  came  stumbling  through  the  dark  to  the 
first  fringe  of*  willows  and  fell  panting  into 
their  black  shadows.  Momentary  relief  was 
hers,  but  when,  on  looking  back  to  the  dark  pile 
she  had  just  quit,  the  girl  saw  a  light  flashing 
from  window  to  window  on  the  ground  floor, 
black  terror  engulfed  her  again.  Now  she 
was  certain  Agnew  had  discovered  the  unten- 
anted bedroom,  the  opened  window. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      203 

Where  could  she  hide?  What  was  her  next 
step?  Like  a  trapped  lynx  the  mind  of  the 
girl  roved  madly  at  the  end  of  a  short  chain,  a 
pitifully  short  chain  of  circumstance.  She 
was  afoot  and  more  than  thirty  miles  from  that 
little  cabin  on  Teapot  recently  abandoned  so 
carelessly  but  this  instant  seeming  precious 
sanctuary  because  beyond  reach.  She  had  not 
a  friend  in  Two  Moons;  there  was  none  in 
Two  Moons  she  knew  except  Original  Bill, 
and  he  was  the  author  of  her  present  abysmal 
distress.  If  she  remained  anywhere  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  town  she  would  be  caught  and 
locked  up  in  a  more  secure  restraint  than  what 
she  had  just  escaped.  But  how  to  get  back  to 
her  cabin,  or  even  to  Woolly  Annie's  home 
ranch  on  Poison  Spider,  where  protection 
might  be  given  her  because  of  the  business  as- 
sociation that  existed  between  the  sheep  queen 
and  her  father? 

There  was  but  one  way  —  a  desperate  way. 
That  one  Hilma  determined  to  pursue,  come 
what  might.  She  started  to  follow  the 
stream's  fringe  of  willows  to  that  point  where 
the  creek  made  a  wide  bend  in  toward  the  town 
and  passed  under  the  bridge  at  the  far  end  of 
Main  Street.     The  intermittent  popping  of 


204      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

revolvers  and  snappy  answer  of  rifles  punctu- 
ated her  gropings  and  stumblings  among  the 
willow  roots.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  drew  to 
the  black  cardboard  shapes  which  represented 
Two  Moons.     More  vicious  became  the  firing. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

The  sun  had  gone  down  that  night  upon  a 
town  thirsting  for  action.  Two  Moons  was 
like  a  fever  patient  in  whose  veins  has  accumu- 
lated all  the  virus  of  fantasy  and  disordered 
imaginings  and  who  approaches  that  zero  hour 
of  the  ultimate  combustion  of  every  atom  of 
the  contagion.  Its  imagination  had  been  fired 
by  the  early-morning  appearance  of  the  Killer 
between  a  girl  of  startling  beauty  and  an  out- 
law head  of  a  modern  Robin  Hood  band. 
This  imagination  easily  was  transformed  to  the 
kinetic  call  for  action  when  Woolly  Annie  came 
to  town  with  her  plaint  of  a  new  outrage  done, 
when  Uncle  Alf  conjured  the  voices  of  ancient 
prophets  to  urge  a  liberation  from  the  bonds- 
men. The  trick  of  psychology  which  Original 
Bill  had  turned  to  his  advantage  wherewith  to 
rescue  a  hated  representative  of  the  cattle  bar- 
ony from  summary  vengeance  was  the  final 
provocation  of  explosion. 


2o6      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

The  twenty  deputies  with  white  handker- 
chiefs marking  their  arms  and  rifles  in  their 
hands  whom  Sheriff  Agnew  had  placed  before 
the  courthouse  and  jail  served  to  point  an  ar- 
row to  the  logical  course  of  action.  If  depu- 
ties guarded  the  jail  it  was  because  the  law  — - 
whom  Agnew  served  theoretically  at  least  — 
considered  something  in  that  jail  precious 
enough  to  protect  against  possible  mob  mad- 
ness and  preserve  for  its  own  due  and  mysteri- 
ous courses.     Who,  if  not  the  Killer? 

The  first  answer  to  the  unspoken  query  came 
from  the  mouth  of  the  nondescript  waif  of  the 
sheep  range  who  had  been  first  to  recognize 
the  Killer  and  announce  his  identity  on  Main 
Street  that  morning.  Foot  on  rail  and  glass 
of  whiskey  in  hand,  the  little  prairie  weasel  had 
with  much  gravity  propounded  this  truth: 
"  Yes,  sir,  gents,  I  says  the  sooner  the  Killer 's 
lookin'  up  a  rope  the  better  it  '11  be  all  round, 
law  or  no  law." 

From  so  humble  a  source  speculation  waxed 
and  grew  into  conviction,  practically  unani- 
mous, that  the  shadowy  thing  called  law  — 
none  too  solidly  established  in  the  Big  Country 
—  would  appreciate  the  favor  of  having  a  mur- 
derer taken  off  its  hands  and  execute^  forth- 


Trails  to  Two  Moons       207 

with.  The  corollary  instantly  becoming  pa- 
tent was  that  the  law  really  did  not  have  a 
grudge  against  Zang  Whistler;  wherefore, 
should  he  be  found  anywhere  around  the  jail  he 
would  be  turned  loose. 

One  man  at  a  bar  turned  questioningly  and 
looked  into  his  neighbor's  eyes.  Heads 
nodded  gravely.  A  few  words  were  spoken. 
One  by  one  men  began  to  sift  out  on  to  the 
street.  From  saloon  and  shop  they  came, 
gathering  in  little  knots  in  the  deeper  shadows 
between  the  bars  of  yellow  light  laid  down  on 
the  wooden  sidewalks  in  grotesque  mosaics. 
The  giant  who  had  quailed  before  Original's 
threatening  gun  came  from  his  blacksmith  shop 
carrying  a  heavy  sledge  and  with  a  cold  chisel 
tucked  under  the  binding  thong  of  his  leather 
apron.  Him  the  men  greeted  as  a  leader.  He 
passed  from  group  to  group,  merging  them 
into  a  solid  core  behind  his  back. 

Within  half  an  hour  there  was  a  blot  of  men 
on  Main  Street  stretching  from  curb  to  curb, 
—  townspeople,  small  farmers  in  from  their 
homesteads  on  the  prairies,  sheepmen  whose 
flocks,  like  Wooly  Annie's,  had  been  despoiled 
in  times  past  or  whose  herders  had  been  found 
in  some  lonely  coulee  with  a  stone  between 


208      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

their  eyes.  Woolly  Annie  herself,  minus  her 
skirt  of  courtesy  and  with  a  borrowed  shotgun 
in  her  hands,  was  in  the  fore ;  her  boy  Dolphus 
she  had  put  to  bed  in  the  Occidental,  and  his 
trousers  she  had  carried  off  and  cached  to  in- 
sure his  keeping  out  of  trouble. 

Slowly  the  blot  in  Main  Street  moved  to- 
ward the  black  loom  of  the  courthouse  at  the 
street's  far  end.  No  light  there;  just  the  in- 
distinct picket  line  of  the  deputies  drawn 
across  the  approach  to  the  building. 

A  flying  horseman,  like  some  restless  night 
bird  of  the  wilderness,  swerved  round  a  corner 
ahead  of  the  mob,  dragged  his  mount  to  his 
haunches,  spun  him  round  as  on  a  dollar  and 
was  thundering  down  a  side  street  almost  be- 
fore those  in  the  front  rank  of  the  marchers 
could  be  aware  of  his  presence.  This  scout 
shot  down  a  dark  alley  and  came  to  the  feed 
lot  behind  the  Capitol  Saloon.  The  dim, 
barred  yard  was  populous  with  other  mounted 
men.  Here  had  gathered  the  riders  in  from 
the  cattle  ranges,  —  hardy  men,  desperate  men 
of  the  clan  who  had  caught  under  the  banners 
of  the  sunset  away  out  yonder  word  of  big  do- 
ings in  town  and  had  come  winging  in  to  see 
what  they  could  see.     Men  of  the  rear  guard 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      209 

of  cattle  land  they,  set  to  hold  against  the 
enemy  in  the  Great  Retreat,  to  contest  every 
inch  of  ground,  to  harry  and  bulldoze  and 
scourge  the  enemy  of  their  kind  at  every  op- 
portunity. 

Big  men,  strong  men  of  the  Big  Country; 
once  riders  of  an  unf enced  prairie  from  Brazos 
to  the  Line;  fighters  of  Indians  and  of  bliz- 
zards ;  hard  in  lif  e  and  hard  to  kill ;  builders  of 
empire.  Their  clan  has  long  passed.  Their 
code  of  a  fair  shot  and  survival  of  the  quickest 
trigger  is  known  no  more.  Only  the  Big 
Country  they  made  out  of  the  prairie  remains, 
—  and  memories  which  flash  sometimes  gro- 
tesquely, sometimes  in  exaggerated  caricature 
on  the  cinema  screen  or  from  the  typewriters 
of  steam-heated  novelists. 

The  scout  from  Main  Street  reported  what 
he  had  seen.  There  was  brief  council,  men 
crowding  close  to  catch  the  signal  for  action. 

'  We  can  give  'em  a  run.  If  a  bunch  of  us 
holds  'em  off  in  front  maybe  somebody  can 
bust  into  the  jail  from  behind  an'  cut  that  Zang 
Whistler  bird  outa  the  herd.  Leave  the  Killer 
be;  nobody  wants  to  dirty  his  hands  with  no 
carrion  hound  like  him." 

A  plan  was  formulated.     Out  over  the  low- 


210      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

ered  bars  of  the  Capitol's  feed  lot  rode  twenty 
horsemen,  divided  at  the  bars  and  were  swal- 
lowed in  the  maw  of  the  alley.  One  party 
rode  in  a  wide  swing  by  the  creek  to  get  behind 
the  jail;  the  other  went  at  a  walk  through  a 
scattered  street  of  houses  to  come  in  and  catch 
the  Main  Street  mob  on  the  flank. 

The  head  of  the  mob  on  Main  Street  came 
to  the  picket  line  of  deputies  stretched  before 
the  big  building  which  housed  the  jail;  came  to 
the  line,  wavered  and  halted.  Suddenly  the 
big  figure  of  Red  Agnew  appeared  on  the 
courthouse  steps  behind  his  deputies.  He 
held  up  a  hand : 

"  Boys,  I  know  what  you  're  here  for. 
You  've  come  for  the  Killer.  Boys,  you  can't 
have  him.  He  don't  belong  to  you;  he  don't 
belong  to  me.  The  law  owns  him,  and  I 
promise  you  the  law  '11  give  him  what  he  de- 
serves. Don't  go  for  to  spoil  the  fair  name  of 
Broken  Horn  County  with  mob  law,  be- 
cause  " 

A  shot  from  the  cross  street  that  cut  Main 
Street  along  the  courthouse  front.  A  shot 
and  the  rush  of  horsemen  bearing  down  break- 
neck upon  the  mob  and  the  picket  line  of  dep- 
uties. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      211 

A  solid  galloping  core,  launched  straight  at 
the  mass  before  the  courthouse,  came  on  irre- 
sistibly. Like  standing  grain  under  the  lash 
of  a  great  wind  the  mob  bent  and  parted. 
Clangor  of  cries.  Shots.  Rataplan  of  hoofs. 
Then  the  whirlwind  had  passed. 

Surprise  had  been  absolute  and  stunning. 
Had  the  courthouse  walls  suddenly  pitched 
upon  the  heads  of  the  mob  the  effect  could  have 
been  no  less  bewildering.  Out  of  the  dark  a 
thunderbolt  had  come  whizzing  and  passed  into 
the  dark  again. 

But  in  a  moment  Two  Moons'  folk  gathered 
their  senses.  Boiling  rage  seethed  through 
the  crowd  that  reassembled.  The  sheriff's 
deputies  forgot  their  sworn  duty  and  broke 
their  line  of  defense  across  the  path  to  the  jail; 
they  mingled  with  the  rest,  rushed  blindly  down 
in  the  direction  the  attackers  had  disappeared, 
firing  into  the  dark.  Other  men  with  rifles 
faced  themselves  in  a  line  across  the  street 
whence  the  attack  had  come,  prepared  for  a 
second  avalanche. 

"  They  're  after  the  Killer!  The  cattlemen 
have  come  to  run  off  the  Killer!"  was  the 
alarm  that  swept  across  the  bobbing  heads. 

The  boldness  of  the  enemy  fired  still  further 


212      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

the  mob's  rage.  That  the  cattle  clan  should 
dare  attempt  to  cheat  them  of  the  murderer 
the  people  of  Two  Moons  had  come  to  get  was 
provocation  to  madness.  A  segment  of  the 
crowd  swept  against  the  big  gate  giving  on  to 
the  jail  yard;  it  went  down  with  a  crash.  Men 
streamed  into  the  jail  yard  and  up  to  the 
locked  door  beyond. 

That  instant  the  horsemen  who  had  driven 
through  the  press  like  a  spearhead  attempted 
to  repeat  the  maneuver.  They  were  met  with 
a  scattering  volley  which  halted  them  in  the 
dark.  Stabs  of  red  through  the  night  were 
answered  by  vicious  stabs.  Uproar  settled 
about  the  courthouse. 

At  the  first  charge  of  the  horsemen  Sheriff 
Agnew  had  stumbled  back  through  the  court- 
house door.  He  ran  gropingly  to  the  corri- 
dor leading  to  the  jail,  mounted  an  iron  flight 
of  steps.  A  twist  of  a  key  let  him  into  the 
outer  cage  of  the  cell  house,  separated  from  the 
inner  blocks  of  cells  by  a  wall  of  steel  bars ;  a 
corridor  ran  the  length  of  the  cell  house  be- 
yond this  barrier.  Agnew  unlocked  the  door 
giving  on  to  this  corridor. 

"Zang!"  he  cried.     "Zang!" 

"Here  yu'  are!"  came  a  voice  from  the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      213 

dark.  Agnew  guided  himself  with  a  lighted 
match  to  the  cell  the  outlaw  occupied  and  with 
a  special  key  turned  the  lock.  Whistler 
stepped  out  into  the  corridor  at  the  sheriff's 
beckoning  and  followed  him  down  to  the  door 
through  the  outer  barrier.  Agnew  pushed 
him  through  and  then  locked  the  gate  behind 
him. 

"  Hey! "  was  the  hail  out  of  the  dark  wil- 
derness of  steel;  it  was  the  Killer's  voice. 
"Hey,  sheriff,  don't  I  come  in  on  this? 
You  're  not  goin'  to  leave  me  here,  sheriff,  with 
that  mob  bustin'  in  to  get  me?  " 

"  Maybe  you  're  safer  than  you  think  right 
here,"  was  the  cryptic  comfort  Agnew  called 
back  to  the  only  remaining  occupant  of  the 
cage,  and  he  drew  Whistler  with  him  out  to 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  whence  his  voice  could 
not  carry  to  the  wretch  left  behind. 

"  Zang,  there 's  hell  to  pay,  as  I  reckon 
you  've  been  hearing.  The  town  boys  're  aim- 
ing to  break  in  and  get  the  Killer.  A  bunch 
of  cow-punchers  is  tied  into  'em  with  the  idea, 
of  course,  of  freeing  the  Killer  and  nabbin' 
you.  If  the  cattle  outfit  should  win  out  you  'd 
be  a  goner,  Zang."  The  outlaw  chuckled. 
"  I  'm  sorta  violatin'  my  oath  to  do  this,  Zang, 


214      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

but  I  'm  going  to  take  you  down  to  my  own 
quarters  and  ask  your  word  you  won't  make  a 
break  'less  you  know  the  cowmen  win  out  and 
hear  'em  making  a  search  for  you.  Then 
—  well,  the  windows  aren't  barred,  Zang; 
you  can  take  a  chance." 

Agnew  felt  the  other's  hand  groping  for  his. 

"  Thanks,  Agnew,  you  're  white.  Where  's 
the  girl?  I  don't  want  her  mixed  into  all 
this." 

"Why,  she  was  asleep  in  the  missis'  room," 
Agnew  replied.  "  You  just  step  in  here." 
He  opened  a  door  and  pushed  Whistler  into 
Stygian  darkness.  "  Don't  make  a  light. 
I  '11  go  find  the  girl  and  bring  her  in  here  until 
we  see  which  way  the  cat 's  goin'  to  jump  out- 
side." 

Whistler,  groping  for  a  chair,  heard  the 
sheriff's  retreating  footfalls.  Then  came  to  his 
ears  a  crashing  of  wood  somewhere  outside  and 
the  thunder  of  blows  upon  a  door.  Zang  felt 
along  the  wall  until  his  hand  encountered  a 
window  sash.  He  pulled  aside  a  shade  and 
looked  out.  A  part  of  the  street  before  the 
courthouse  was  revealed  to  him.  He  saw  a 
turbulent  boiling  of  dim  shapes  there,  the  oc- 
casional spit  of  a  rifle. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      215 

Zang  waited. 

Agnew,  with  a  hastily  snatched  lamp  in  his 
hand,  first  directed  his  wife  through  the  corri- 
dors of  the  courthouse  and  out  of  a  side  door, 
bidding  her  turn  to  a  near-by  house  for  shelter. 
Then  he  hurried  back  to  the  living  quarters 
and  to  the  room  where  Hilma  had  been  put  to 
bed.  Just  as  he  opened  the  door  and  his  quick 
eye  told  him  the  bed  was  empty,  a  leg  was 
thrown  over  the  sill  of  the  opened  window  and 
the  figure  of  a  man  pitched  into  the  room.  In- 
stantly another  man's  hands  appeared  on  the 
window  ledge. 

"Timberline  Todd!     What "     Before 

the  sheriff  could  set  the  lamp  down  and  reach 
to  his  holster,  the  gaunt  cow-puncher  had 
lurched  into  his  midriff.  Down  they  went. 
The  light  crashed  out. 

"  This  way,  boys! "  Agnew  heard  the  sibi- 
lant whisper  from  the  direction  of  the  window. 
"  We  got  Red  an'  his  keys." 

Agnew  fought  desperately.  He  felt  bodies 
hurled  upon  him.  Fingers  groped  for  his 
throat.  Something  struck  him  on  the  head, 
and  he  knew  no  more. 

Through  the  window  Hilma  had  left  open 
in  her  flight  ten  of  the  cattle  clan  came  turn- 


216      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

bling.  They  searched  the  unconscious  Agnew, 
found  his  keys  and  started  on  an  uncharted 
way  through  the  dark  for  the  jail. 

It  was  then  the  mob  from  the  street  broke 
through  the  jail  door  and  swarmed  into  a 
broad  passageway  leading  to  the  flight  of  iron 
stairs  to  the  cell  house  above.  Somebody 
carried  a  lantern  high  above  his  head.  That 
was  the  only  light.  It  went  pitching  and  toss- 
ing over  the  surf  of  heads  thrusting  up  the 
broad  staircase. 

A  door  on  the  second  landing  was  opened 
just  as  the  vanguard  of  the  mob  was  turning 
a  newel  post  for  the  final  rank  of  steps  to  the 
door  of  the  cell  house.  Timberline  Todd,  with 
the  keys  to  the  cell  house  in  his  pocket,  took  one 
startled  look  at  the  bobbing  lantern  and  the 
close-packed  scores  of  men  it  shone  upon,  then 
banged  shut  the  door  and  turned  a  key  in  the 
lock. 

"  All  off,  boys,"  he  shrilled  in  a  half  whisper 
to  those  behind.  "  They  've  beat  us  to  it.  We 
better  vamose  while  we  're  all  in  one  piece." 

So  back  through  the  sheriff's  quarters  and  to 
the  opened  window  the  retreat  of  the  cowmen 
carried  them.  Their  way  led  past  a  closed 
door,  beyond  which  the  one  they  had  come  to 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      217 

find  waited  in  the  dark.  Just  an  unlocked 
door  between  Zang  Whistler  and  the  men  who 
had  braved  all  Two  Moons  to  capture  him. 

In  the  dark  cell  house,  meanwhile,  the  final 
denouement  of  the  town's  day  of  climaxes  was 
come  to  its  moment. 

The  head  of  the  mob  streamed  through  the 
door  leading  from  the  stair  landing  into  the 
great  room  filled  with  a  shadow  web  of  ranked 
steel.  The  narrow  space  between  outer  wall 
and  the  close-set  fence  of  the  cell  block  was 
theirs  to  possess,  but  a  locked  gate  and  beyond 
that  a  locked  door  to  a  cell  separated  them 
from  their  victim.  For  the  first  time  this 
modern  cell  arrangement,  which  had  been  one 
of  the  cardinal  points  of  pride  in  Two  Moons' 
vaunting  of  a  new  courthouse,  appeared  a  dis- 
advantage. 

"  Where 's  Agnew? "  some  one  yelled. 
"  Make  Red  give  up  his  keys."  A  dozen 
hands  fruitlessly  strained  at  the  bars  of  the 
gate ;  it  did  not  yield  so  much  as  a  rattle. 

"  Nobody  can  find  Agnew,"  was  the  report 
called  from  the  stairs  where  the  remnant  of  the 
mob  denied  entrance  into  the  narrow  space  be- 
fore the  cell  house  had  to  cool  its  impatience. 
The  man  with  the  lantern  held  it  high  against 


2  1 8      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

the  bars;  scores  of  eyes  tried  to  peer  through 
the  concentric  ranks  of  bars  and  find  the  man 
doomed  to  die.     Impenetrable  blackness  there. 

"  To  hell  with  the  keys !  Here,  boys,  let  me 
through."  It  was  Jim  Hanscomb,  the  black- 
smith, shouldering  his  way  through  the  crowd. 
His  black-headed  sledge  was  carried  over  his 
shoulder.  They  made  a  ring  for  him  around 
the  gate  to  the  cell  block.  The  man  with  the 
lantern  held  it  high  to  give  light.  Another 
man  was  directed  by  the  big  blacksmith  where 
to  hold  his  cold  chisel  against  the  lock. 

The  room  roared  with  the  impact  of  steel 
against  steel.  The  mob  bayed.  Still  from 
the  pitchy  blackness  beyond  the  inner  fence  of 
steel  not  a  sound. 

For  ten  minutes  the  steel  forest  of  the  cell 
block  was  clangorous  with  the  crash  of  sledge. 
Then  the  lock  gave  and  the  gate  bounded  open. 
A  snarling  cheer  and  the  foremost  of  the  mob 
pushed  into  the  narrow  corridor  which  ran 
four  sides  round  the  central  block  of  cells. 

"  Hey,  you  Killer!     We  got  you  now!  " 

Slowly,  inexorably,  the  lantern  marched  at 
the  head  of  a  shadowy  rank  of  men,  pausing 
at  each  door  to  be  upheld,  that  its  light  might 
fall  through  bars. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      219 

Then  a  surprising  thing  —  a  thing  of  which 
Two  Moons  talks  to  this  day: 

Somewhere  back  in  the  barred  jungle  of 
gloom  a  match  scratched.  Men  looking 
through  bars  saw  a  bit  of  lit  candle  wick  catch 
the  flame,  saw  the  outlines  of  a  hand  as  the 
candle  fire  waxed  stronger.  Slowly  the  moth- 
like flame  was  lifted  until  it  revealed  the  body 
of  a  man.  It  stopped  over  his  heart.  Came  a 
strong  voice  out  of  the  darkness : 

"  Don't  bust  up  any  more  of  the  county's 
property,  boys.     Here!     Look! " 

A  rifle  spoke.  The  candle  flame  was 
flicked  out. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Original  Bill  was  not  one  of  the  wild 
horsemen  who  played  a  hundred-to-one  chance 
against  the  mob  before  the  jail.  Though  the 
instinct  of  the  clan  had  pulled  him  that  way 
and  the  old  devil  call  of  the  range  —  which  was 
only  the  adventure  spirit  of  the  boy  magnified 
in  the  man  —  shouted  that  he  join  his  fellows 
in  the  desperate  sally,  a  saving  sense  of  strat- 
egy kept  him  away  from  the  melee.  For  one 
thing,  the  range  inspector  was  perforce  a  resi- 
dent of  Two  Moons;  the  town  was  his  head- 
quarters, and  it  would  not  be  meet  for  him  to 
be  found  among  the  raiders  from  the  range. 
But  overtopping  that  consideration  was  the 
heavier  one  of  expediency. 

The  day's  events  carried  to  Original  a 
broader  significance  than  to  the  harum-scarum 
cow-punchers  who  had  seized  the  golden  op- 
portunity for  a  run,  in  their  pat  phraseology. 
From  that  moment  when  he  had  looked  down 


Trails   to    Two    Moons      221 

out  of  his  window  upon  the  cavalcade  escorting 
the  Killer  to  jail  the  little  scout  of  the  range 
understood  that  now  the  two  grappling  forces, 
the  barons  of  the  horned  cattle  and  the  owners 
of  the  sheep,  with  their  allies  of  the  town,  had 
come  to  a  death  lock.  The  blundering  of  Von 
Tromp  had  clinched  upon  the  cattle  clan  the 
onus  of  murder  suborned  by  gold,  however 
clean  might  be  the  hands  of  the  faithful  retain- 
ers in  the  saddle,  —  the  riders  of  the  plains. 

Zang  Whistler  had  executed  a  master  stroke 
by  riding  boldly  into  town;  he  had  become  a 
hero  in  the  eyes  of  the  town  and  definitely  ex- 
alted himself  as  a  leader  against  the  cattlemen. 
The  town  mob  unquestionably  would  release 
him  from  jail,  if,  indeed,  Sheriff  Agnew  had 
made  the  gesture  of  putting  him  behind  bars. 
The  leader  of  the  Teapot  Spout  gang  of  out- 
lawed cow-punchers  and  brand  burners  would 
ride  free  to  prey  upon  the  cattle  outfits  at 
will. 

Original,  pacing  before  the  deserted  Capitol 
Saloon  and  provoked  to  a  burning  restlessness 
by  the  uproar  a  few  blocks  up  the  street,  came 
to  a  stern  resolution.  He  would  clean  out  the 
Spout  at  once,  perhaps  catch  Whistler  before 
he  could  get  back  to  his  hole  in  the  mountains, 


222      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

at  least  fall  upon  him  and  his  men  in  the  first 
moment  of  their  fancied  security. 

A  big  contract!  Rumor  credited  Zang 
Whistler  with  having  between  thirty  and  forty 
men  behind  his  back,  all  of  them  former  cow- 
punchers  who  had  been  black-balled  by  the 
foremen  of  the  Big  Country  for  known  or  sus- 
pected dexterity  with  the  running  iron. 
Some  had  taken  a  flyer  at  holding  up  Union 
Pacific  trains  and  had  beaten  pursuing  posses 
in  a  race  for  the  Spout.  All  were  men  who 
would  fight  desperately  against  any  menace  of 
prison  bars.  Once  before  Original  had  at- 
tempted to  fight  his  way  into  the  Spout  at  the 
head  of  a  picked  company  of  range  riders  and 
had  been  beaten  back,  but  on  that  occasion  he 
had  gained  a  fair  conception  of  the  lay  of  the 
land  which  he  had  broadened  subsequently  by 
many  unsuspected  reconnoitering  expeditions 
to  high  places  and  hours  spent  peering  through 
his  glass. 

The  range  inspector  swiftly  conned  over 
available  material  to  put  at  his  back.  Of  the 
men  in  town  that  night  there  were  five  or  six 
whose  fiber  of  bravery  he  had  seen  put  to  the 
test  beforetime,  and  he  knew  its  quality  to  be 
high.     These  men  would  form  the  nucleus  of 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      223 

his  force.  Between  town  and  the  Spout  lay 
the  Circle  Y  and  the  Hashknif e  ranges ;  from 
these  two  he  firmly  believed  he  could  recruit 
his  strength  and  provision  his  outfit  for  a  swift 
and  deadly  invasion  of  that  narrow  hallway  of 
the  mountains  which  was  Zang  Whistler's 
citadel. 

"And  this  won't  be  Mister  Von  Tromp's 
notion  of  a  kiss-in-the-corner  game  either," 
Original  spoke  his  thoughts  aloud.  "  Some- 
thing going  to  bust  and  bust  big!  " 

He  walked  swiftly  down  Main  Street  away 
from  the  direction  of  the  courthouse  and 
turned  into  the  dark  maw  of  the  Fashion 
Stables,  where  his  little  horse  Tige  had  a  stall. 
The  dim  and  hay-sweet  interior  was  deserted. 
A  single  lantern  hanging  on  a  peg  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  alleyway  of  stalls  threw  a  fitful 
light  over  the  rumps  of  the  nearest  tethered 
horses.  Original  took  down  the  lantern,  by 
its  light  selected  his  saddle  from  those  pegged 
along  one  wall,  and  walked  to  the  stall  where 
his  four-footed  chum  was  bedded.  An  affec- 
tionate nicker  from  Tige  sent  greeting  to  him 
before  ever  Original  turned  the  stall  post  to 
give  his  little  horse  a  pat  on  the  flank. 

Had  Tige  been  gifted  with  speech  he  would 


224      Trails   to   Two    Moons 

have  told  his  master  something  greatly  in  the 
latter's  interest,  which  was  that  from  the 
square  hole  in  the  hayloft  directly  over  Tige's 
manger  a  pair  of  eyes  were  following  the  man's 
every  movement,  —  eyes  filled  with  a  great 
fear  and  the  desperation  of  some  wild  creature 
caught  in  a  deadfall. 

Hilma  Ring,  lurking  like  a  hunted  beast 
through  the  willows  skirting  the  meandering 
course  of  the  Poison  Spider,  had  believed  her- 
self a  fugitive,  thinking  the  uproar  about  the 
jail  behind  her  the  beginnings  of  pursuit. 
The  girl  was  in  the  last  extremity  of  panic. 
Her  accustomed  phlegm,  heritage  of  the  Norse 
blood  in  her,  had  been  dissipated  by  the  whirl- 
wind of  events,  and  now  that  corroding  imag- 
ination which  rode  the  wings  of  the  dark  out 
around  the  little  cabin  on  Teapot  roweled  her 
mercilessly. 

Prison  bars!  The  crossed  branches  of  the 
willows  sketched  them  before  her  eyes.  The 
clank  of  iron  shutting  out  the  world ;  a  loosened 
stone  dropping  to  strike  a  bowlder  dinned  the 
dreadful  sound  in  her  ears.  Oh,  to  get  back 
to  the  silent  places  where  the  land  heaves  in- 
terminably away  to  the  great  dike  of  the  moun- 
tains!    To  undo  the  folly  of  that  ride  with 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      225 

Zang  and  the  Killer  into  a  trap  laid  by  that 
smiling  little  enemy,  Original  Bill  Blunt! 

Roots  tripped  her  and  she  scrambled  whim- 
pering to  her  feet.  The  sly  enmity  of  the 
blackberry  vines  laid  snares  for  her,  pecked  at 
her  thrusting  arms  with  vicious  claws.  Now 
the  leisurely  sweep  of  the  stream  had  brought 
her  very  close  to  the  town,  where  the  bridge 
crosses  on  to  Main  Street.  Almost  above  her 
head  were  the  black  silhouettes  of  buildings. 

Hilma  climbed  the  steep  bank  away  from 
running  water  and  dropped  behind  a  packing 
box  on  a  rubbish  heap  of  discarded  cans  to  lis- 
ten for  the  footfalls  of  pursuit.  None 
sounded.  There  was  now  no  more  sound  of 
firing  from  the  direction  of  the  jail,  now  the 
whole  span  of  the  town's  four  blocks  away 
from  the  fugitive.  She  ran,  bending  low,  to 
throw  herself  beneath  a  wagon  standing  in  an 
unused  corral  behind  the  blacksmith  shop. 
From  the  wagon  her  next  spurt  took  her  to  the 
refuse  piles  at  the  back  of  the  Fashion  Stables, 
the  objective  of  her  Indianlike  dodging  and 
twisting.  A  manure  trap  at  the  back  of  the 
stable  was  open ;  through  it  the  girl  climbed  to 
drop  to  the  floor  at  the  end  of  the  dim  row  of 
stalls. 


226      Trails   to    Two   Moons 

She  had  come  to  steal  a  horse.  Horses  were 
here  for  her  choice. 

The  hidden  beasts  in  their  stalls  snorted  sus- 
piciously when  Hilma  dropped  through  to  the 
interior  of  the  stable.  A  fresh  wave  of  panic 
drenched  her;  she  dropped  behind  a  pile  of 
bagged  oats  and  listened  to  the  thump-thump 
of  her  heart.  No  inquiring  footsteps  up 
where  that  single  lantern  hung  between  the 
farthest  stall  and  the  saddle  pegs.  The  stable 
seemed  deserted  of  men. 

It  was  long  before  the  girl  mustered  her 
courage  to  the  point  where  she  could  dare  ven- 
ture on  skipping  toes  down  the  stall  lane  where 
hung  the  saddles.  She  lifted  one  off  its  peg, 
threw  across  her  arm  the  saddle  blanket  resting 
beneath  and  started  back  to  pick  her  horse.  It 
required  all  her  strength  to  hold  the  saddle 
high  so  that  dragging  stimips  would  not  be- 
tray her.  She  turned  into  one  pitch-black 
stall  at  the  rearmost  end  of  the  alley,  whis- 
pered soothing  words  to  the  beast  that  resented 
her  intrusion  with  a  whiffling  snort  and  pranc- 
ing hoofs,  then  spread  the  blanket  across  its 
back.  Just  as  Hilma  was  lifting  the  saddle 
into  place  the  sound  of  footsteps  at  the  entrance 
of  the  stable  sent  a  stab  through  her  heart. 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      227 

She  dropped  the  saddle.  One  hand  flew  out 
in  the  darkness  and  touched  the  rung  of  a  rough 
wall  ladder  shooting  up  to  the  hayloft  above. 
Hardly  conscious  of  her  movements,  she  clam- 
bered swiftly  hand  over  hand  up  to  the  black 
vastness  and  let  herself  drop  panting  on  the 
spicy  hay. 

For  a  while  Hilma  gave  herself  to  a  delicious 
lassitude,  —  weakness  coming  in  the  train  of 
long  nerve  strain.  Then,  as  one  by  one  the 
hay  vents  into  the  stalls  below  glowed  golden 
with  the  passing  of  a  lantern  beneath,  curiosity 
battled  with  her  fear.  Through  a  square  in 
the  floor  not  many  feet  distant  the  light  shone 
steadily,  indicating  that  the  lantern  had  come 
to  a  stop  in  the  stall  below.  The  girl  inched  her 
way  with  painful  caution  to  the  edge  of  the  hole 
and  dared  look  over. 

She  saw  below  her  a  broad-brimmed  hat 
which  almost  hid  the  span  of  a  man's  shoulders 
beneath.  Hands  seemingly  detached  busied 
themselves  with  cinch  and  bridle.  For  a  min- 
ute the  hat  laid  itself  against  the  horse's 
muzzle,  and  the  sound  of  a  love  croon  came  up 
to  her  ears.  The  horse  laid  back  his  ears  and 
playfully  pretended  to  bite. 

"You  no  'count  ole  hayburner,  just  you 


228      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

keep  your  hair  on  'til  I  go  write  up  my  tally  on 
Lonny  Moore's  slate.  Then  I  'm  goin'  ride 
you  plumb  thin.  'Til  you  ain't  got  a  tick  left 
in  your  clockworks;  you  hear  me,  fool  hoss!  " 

Tige  heard.  So  did  Hilma  Ring.  She 
heard  and  recognized  the  voice  of  her  enemy. 
Her  blood  went  cold  within  her,  then  hot  rage 
succeeded.  Original's  foot-falls  diminished  in 
the  direction  of  the  office  up  by  the  street  door. 

A  wild  impulse  seized  the  girl.  Without 
giving  time  for  reason  it  pushed  her  over  the 
edge  of  the  hay  drop.  Little  Tige  snorted  in 
outrage  and  backed  to  the  length  of  his  bridle 
rope  when  a  blue  dress  flashed  past  his  eyes  and 
quick  hands  flew  to  unsnap  the  clasp  on  his  bit 
ring.  Hilma  gave  a  great  leap,  managed  to 
throw  one  leg  over  the  saddle  just  as  Tige 
backed  out  of  the  stall.  She  fought  for  her 
seat,  and  found  it  and  gave  the  angry  horse  a 
cut  with  the  bridle  ends  as  she  whirled  him 
round  for  the  door. 

Her  feet  had  not  found  the  stirrups  and  her 
stockinged  knees,  with  the  taut  hem  of  her  skirt 
bound  about  them,  were  clamped  tight  against 
the  saddle  flaps  when  Tige  bore  her  plunging 
for  the  street. 

Original,  hearing  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  ran 


Trails   to    Two    Moons      229 

out  from  the  office,  arms  spread  wide.  Lamp- 
light from  the  door  behind  him  showed  him  just 
a  flash  of  Tige's  blazed  forehead  bearing  down 
upon  him,  a  shapely  leg  bound  tight  against 
the  saddle  girth,  a  white  face  and  blazing  eyes. 
He  put  up  one  hand  to  seize  the  bridle. 

Hilma  leaned  forward  in  the  saddle;  the 
quirtlike  loose  ends  of  the  bridle  rein  whirled 
from  her  hand  like  leaping  vipers  and  smote 
him  fair  in  the  face.  He  saw  the  girl's  white 
teeth  bared  in  a  grimace  of  hate.  Then  she 
was  out  and  thundering  down  the  street  for  the 
bridge  and  the  Big  Country  beyond. 

Original  leaped  for  the  saddle  pegs  and,  a 
saddle  on  arm,  dashed  down  to  the  nearest  horse 
stall. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

Oyer  in  the  eastern  sky  above  the  dim  Black 
Hills  the  velvety  blackness  that  is  night  in  the 
Big  Country  began  insensibly  to  grow  less  like 
the  nap  on  a  black  butterfly's  wing  and  the  stars 
that  had  been  burning  there,  each  suspended  by^, 
invisible  cords  from  the  vault  of  heaven,  re- 
treated and  became  one  with  the  flatness  of  the 
sky.  The  pallid  east  flushed  its  first  harebell 
pink  while  all  the  remaining  sweep  of  celestial 
lights  glowed  as  if  night  were  to  be  eternal. 
Bit  by  bit  the  blot  of  the  Big  Country  became  a 
blur ;  the  blur  took  dim  form.  Hills  rose  from 
nothingness.  Buttes  were  conjured  out  of  the 
void.  The  long  sleepy  waves  of  the  divides 
stirred  under  the  first  breath  of  dawn,  their 
frozen  tides  restless  to  be  freed. 

Deeper  flushed  the  pink  in  the  east.  Down 
in  the  line  of  alders  that  marked  the  course  of 
a  stream  faint  chitterings  and  flutterings  be- 
tokened the  waking  of  the  wilderness  things. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      231 

An  owl's  insistent  who-o-o-o-whup  which  had 
been  the  pulse  beat  of  the  night  was  stilled  so 
suddenly  that  the  whole  void  between  earth  and 
dimming  stars  seemed  to  hang  breathless  for 
its  repetition.  A  coyote  with  his  early-morn- 
ing kill  between  his  paws  sent  quavering 
through  the  half  light  a  meat  call  to  a  mate. 
Dawn  came  swiftly. 

It  found  Original  sitting  a  borrowed  horse 
atop  the  highest  butte  in  Bad  Water  Breaks, 
waiting  for  light.  He  was  alone.  He  had 
ridden  all  night  crisscrossing  over  the  Big 
Country  that  lies  between  Two  Moons  and 
Teapot  Creek,  seeking  Hilma  Ring,  whom  he 
believed  lost. 

After  the  sudden  savage  apparition  of  the 
girl  who  rode  him  down  in  the  Fashion  Stables 
and  cut  him  with  the  bridle  rein  Original  had 
saddled  the  first  horse  to  hand,  left  a  brief  note 
explaining  his  action  on  Lonny  Moore's  slate 
and  started  across  the  Poison  Spider  bridge 
in  pursuit.  The  girl  had,  perhaps,  ten  min- 
utes' start  of  him.  Between  the  bridge  and 
Twenty  Mile  Creek  there  was  but  a  single  road 
with  no  forking.  Believing  Hilma  was  mak- 
ing for  her  home,  the  man  confidently  expected 
to  overhaul  her  before  she  reached  the  ford  of 


232      Trails   to    Two   Moons 

Twenty  Mile.  Though  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  horse  between  his  knees,  he  counted  on  the 
girl's  failure  to  get  out  of  a  rebellious  Tige  one- 
half  that  little  horse  was  capable  of  giving. 

But  he  had  not  gone  ten  miles  before  he  be- 
came convinced  the  girl  was  not  ahead  of  him. 
Dismounting,  he  had  examined  with  lighted 
matches  the  thin  dust  lying  over  the  hard  'dobe 
of  the  road;  no  cut  hoof  marks  in  the  dew- 
drenched  ribbon  of  dirt.  Where  had  she 
turned  off,  and  why? 

Then  he  remembered  one  of  Tige's  little 
tricks.  Whenever  he  rode  Tige  over  this  road 
to  Teapot,  if  there  were  no  pressing  hurry,  he 
allowed  the  little  horse  to  take  a  cross  trail  lead- 
ing a  mile  off  the  road  to  a  salt  lick.  Never  had 
he  passed  that  cross  trail  without  a  pantomime 
of  protest  on  Tige's  part.  It  was  one  of  their 
little  games  —  a  secret  between  friends,  this 
ear-flattening  and  angry  side-stepping  mock 
heroics  on  Tige's  part.  Back  to  the  cross  trail 
rode  Original.  Once  more  the  lighted  match. 
Tige's  trail  lay  plain  as  a  painted  arrow  along 
the  salt-lick  path ;  the  hoof  prints  showed  he  had 
swerved  at  full  gallop  and  without  his  rider's 
knowledge,  for  there  was  no  break  made  by  a 
bridle  tug. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      233 

At  the  salt  lick  little  was  revealed  to  the  keen 
eye  of  the  trailer.  Tige  had  tried  to  stop. 
Once  he  had  bucked  in  protest  against  the  will 
of  the  rider  which  pushed  him  on,  then  he  had 
compromised  with  his  old  racking  gait.  But 
he  was  following  a  dim,  forgotten  trail  leaping 
cross  country  to  Wild  Horse  Canon  in  the 
wildest  of  the  Powder  River  Country.  The 
girl  Hilma  was  lost  in  the  Big  Country. 

So,  after  a  night  of  slow  traveling  in  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  trail  Tige  had  taken  —  so 
faint  it  was  that  Original  could  only  pick  up 
familiar  landmarks  as  they  came  out  of  the 
night's  sack  —  he  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
light  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  Bad  Water 
Breaks.  He  was  on  the  highest  ground  for 
thirty  miles  around;  Hilma  could  not  move 
anywhere  within  that  radius  without  eventually 
revealing  herself  to  the  trailer. 

Strengthening  light  played  upon  the  cathe- 
dral columns  of  the  breaks  all  around  —  wind- 
and-water-hewn  terrain  all  chopped  and 
scarred  into  coulees  and  snaglike  buttes.  Light 
rolled  back  the  night  from  all  the  waves  of  the 
divides  between  the  breaks  and  Pumpkin 
Buttes  far  to  the  southward.  Stronger  be- 
came the  contours  until  all  the  land  lay  like  a 


234      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

relief  map  in  clay  and  putty  under  Original's 
feet. 

Then  he  saw  the  girl.  Just  a  slow  moving 
dot  of  blue  away  off  to  the  southeast  where  the 
Crazy  Squaw  feels  its  way  toward  Powder. 
He  watched  her  for  a  while,  watched  her  make 
a  wide  circle  and  come  to  a  halt,  circle  again  and 
stop  in  a  swale  between  divides.  That  tiny  dot 
of  blue  cried  across  crystal  spaces  "  Lost  — 
lost!" 

A  slow  smile  tugged  at  the  corners  of  Orig- 
inal's mouth  as  he  put  his  borrowed  mount 
to  the  steep  declivity  of  the  butte  and  came  jolt- 
ing down  into  the  tortuous  alleys  of  the  coulees. 
A  little  of  pity  in  that  smile ;  a  little  of  sardonic 
humor.  To  him,  who  could  traverse  the  most 
dangerous  stretches  of  the  Big  Country  in  the 
dark  and  at  full  tilt,  who  knew  this  mountain- 
bound  wilderness  as  a  city  dweller  knows  his 
flat,  that  wandering  dot  of  blue  was  a  bird  in 
the  net. 

"  Stranger  hoss,"  he  caroled,  with  the  lilt  of 
laughter  in  his  voice,  "  you  're  bound  to  meet 
up  with  a  fightin'  wild  cat  right  soon.  But  she 
sure  has  lost  some  of  her  claws.  She  '11  have 
to  pay  some  for  holdin'  up  my  game." 

The  wily  trailer  played  his  game  so  neatly 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      235 

that  the  girl  did  not  see  him  until  he  came 
swinging  at  a  trot  straight  down  from  the  crest 
of  a  little  swell  fairly  upon  her.  At  sight  of 
him  her  eyes  widened  in  terror,  and  she  tried 
to  put  Tige  into  a  run.  The  stubborn  little 
brute  took  two  or  three  stiff -legged  plunges, 
then  stopped  and  whinnied  a  welcome  to  his 
master  as  Original  slipped  swiftly  alongside 
and  brought  the  other  horse  to  a  halt  with  hand 
at  the  bit. 

The  man  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  He 
contented  himself  with  looking  with  a  quizzical 
pucker  about  his  eyes  into  the  girl's  face. 
Overnight  terror  of  wandering  had  left  its 
stamp  there,  but  the  fighting  spirit  of  her  strove 
mightily  to  hang  up  the  emblems  of  defiance  in 
eyes  and  cheeks. 

"■Sorta  takin'  the  morning  air,  I  reckon," 
Original  said  with  a  broad  smile.     No  answer. 

"  They  's  not  many  wagon  tracks  hereabouts 
an'  the  country  's  fair  to  middlin'  safe  for  any- 
body who  don't  find  herself  wishful  to  meet  up 
with  strangers."  Original  seemed  to  be  talk- 
ing more  to  Tige  than  to  the  girl;  there  was  an 
impersonal  quality  in  his  speech.  "  Yes, 
ma'am,  this  here  's  called  Cattle  Kate's  country 
—  here  round  Crazy  Squaw.     You  've  heard 


236      Trails   to    Two   Moons 

tell  of  Cattle  Kate?  "  He  looked  up  with  po- 
lite interest.  The  girl's  lips  tightened  against 
an  answer.  Her  eyes  were  alert  against 
the  unguessed  objective  of  Original's  attack. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled  in  a  voice  that  was  musi- 
cal in  its  odd  cachinnations  —  "  well,  Cattle 
Kate  was  the  only  woman  hung  in  the  Big 
Country  —  up  to  date.  She  was  hung  for  a 
hoss  thief  'long  with  Old  Man  Averill." 

Hilma  started  despite  herself,  then  the  angry 
flush  deepened  on  her  cheeks.  She  made  an 
impatient  gesture  with  her  shoulders  as  if  to 
challenge  the  man  to  do  his  worst,  now  that  he 
had  her  prisoner. 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  all  this  talk  — 
Cattle  Kate  and  Cattle  Kate's  country?  "  she 
defied.  The  man's  face  suddenly  fell  into  seri- 
ous lines,  which  a  faint  flickering  of  humor 
around  the  eyes  almost  belied. 

"  That 's  my  hoss  you  're  ridin',  an'  out  in 
this  country  it 's  always  been  a  sort  of  custom 
that  when  somebody  takes  somebody  else's  hoss 
without  saying  so  much  as  thank  you  there  's 
bound  to  be  misunderstandings  —  sometimes 
misunderstandings  right  serious.  Leastwise, 
that 's  the  law  for  men ;  we  've  only  had  one 
woman  hoss  thief,  like  I  was  sayin'." 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      237 

The  girl  sensed  that  this  enemy  of  hers  was 
playing  with  her  —  letting  her  run  like  an  in- 
jured mouse,  as  it  were,  only  to  follow  with  the 
smiting  paw.  But  up  through  her  consuming 
rage  at  his  cruelty  pushed  once  more  that  great 
fear  of  the  night  before ;  the  fear  that  had  sent 
her  blundering  through  the  willows  seeking  to 
lose  the  shadow  of  a  jail  behind  her.  Now  he 
spoke  of  horse  stealing.  To  be  sure,  in  her  des- 
peration of  the  night  before  she  had  determined 
to  steal  a  horse  in  order  to  put  town  behind  her, 
but  she  had  not  expected  to  be  caught.  That 
it  was  Original's  horse  she  had  stolen  and  Orig- 
inal himself  who  now  had  her  helpless  here  in 
the  wilderness  of  a  sudden  seemed  terrible  be- 
yond endurance. 

The  instinct  of  woman,  old  as  Eve,  came  to 
her  rescue.  When  in  a  tight  place  take  the 
offensive. 

"  I  might  have  counted  on  seeing  you  out 
here.  I  might  have  known  you  could  n't  keep 
yourself  from  fighting  a  woman."  Original 
was  a  fair  mark  for  the  barb.  He  flushed  an- 
grily, and  the  hint  of  humor  about  his  eyes  sped 
on  the  instant. 

"  That 's  my  little  hoss  Tige  you  're  ridin', 
let  me  remind  you.     I  followed  my  property. 


238      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

If  you  was  a  man  I  would  n't  be  passin'  conver- 
sation polite  and  proper.  The  owner  of  a  hoss 
animal  don't  have  much  to  say  to  the  man  who 
stole  him  when  he  meets  up  with  that  man ;  one 
or  t'other  mostly  's  beyond  talk.  You  '11  oblige 
me,  ma'am,  by  gettin'  down  off  my  hoss." 

Hilma,  quick  to  press  the  advantage  her 
feminine  guile  had  established,  tossed  her  head 
with  a  laugh. 

"  And  if  I  don't  get  down?  "  she  challenged. 
Instantly  the  girl  regretted  carrying  the  high 
hand  so  far.  By  a  sudden  pressure  of  the 
knees  Original  had  ranged  his  horse  alongside 
Tige,  and  his  left  arm  whipped  out  to  encircle 
her  waist.  She  felt  herself  lifted  from  the 
saddle  as  if  she  were  a  child,  and  even  as  she 
twisted  to  bring  her  hands  into  play  she  was 
lowered  across  the  man's  saddle  horn.  She 
gave  her  shoulders  a  mighty  heave  to  break 
the  grip  across  her  biceps,  but,  somehow,  the 
struggle  only  seemed  to  tighten  the  steel  band 
that  held  them  close  to  her  body. 

The  girl's  body  was  bent  slowly  back  until 
her  eyes  were  forced  to  meet  the  black  eyes 
above  them.  These  were  dancing  now.  The 
lips  of  the  man  were  parted  in  a  radiant  smile. 
His  whole  face  beamed  impish  mischief. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      239 

"  The  most  reg'lar  treatment  for  hoss 
thieves,"  said  he,  "  is  to  drive  'em  under  a  Cot- 
tonwood tree,  an'  when  somebody  gives  the 
bronc  a  cut  he  runs  away,  leavin'  Mister  Hoss 
Thief  right  there  under  the  cottonwood  tree. 
But  the  law  hereabouts  don't  say  they  's  no 
special  treatment  for  special  cases."  The  smil- 
ing lips  were  slowly  descending  toward  hers. 
Fun  devils  danced  in  those  black  eyes. 

"  Which  it 's  my  privilege  an'  my  duty  right 
here  an'  now  to  do." 

He  kissed  her  full  on  the  lips.  He  laughed 
and  kissed  her  again.  Then,  just  as  he  re- 
leased the  hold  on  her  straining  arms,  he  leaped 
lightly  out  of  the  saddle  and  was  sitting  on 
Tige's  back  before  Hilma  could  fully  recover 
herself. 

The  girl  swayed  slightly.  Her  face  was 
drained  white.  Her  startled  eyes  stared 
straight  ahead.  "Oh!"  she  whispered,  and 
again,  "Oh!" 

"  Now  we  '11  be  amblin'  along,"  came  Orig- 
inal's matter-of-fact  command.  Tige  broke 
into  a  trot  and  the  livery  horse  dumbly  fol- 
lowed. Hilma  set  her  feet  in  the  stirrups  and 
pulled  her  skirts  down  to  cover  her  stockings. 
Automatic  were  her  movements.     Her  mind 


240      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

was  not  a  part  of  her.  It  was  racing  like  a  wild 
locomotive. 

Horror,  blind  passion,  fear,  shame,  —  like  a 
revolving  color  chart  these  emotions  flickered 
across  her  consciousness,  each  leaving  its  trace 
of  an  impression  to  mingle  with  the  next  and 
produce  a  blur  of  sensation.  Then  slowly 
emerged  a  thought  which  would  not  down,  try 
as  she  would  furiously  to  suppress  it. 

"  The  first  man,"  so  ran  that  thought  — 

"  the  first  man  to "     At  first  the  thought 

did  not  finish  itself,  but  kept  reiterating  itself 
through  her  brain  courses  like  a  hammer's  din. 
Then  in  a  flash  the  thing  popped  out  com- 
pleted : 

"  The  first  man  to  break  me  down!  " 

Tears  stood  in  the  girl's  eyes,  —  tears  of  an- 
ger, yes,  and  of  self-revelation.  Had  she  a 
rifle  in  her  hands  she  would  have  leveled  it  at 
those  smoothly  rippling  shoulders  a  few  paces 
before  her  and  without  compunction  sent  a  bul- 
let between  them.     Yet 

All  at  once  a  vivid  picture  of  that  minute 
when  she  was  in  his  arms  flashed  on  the  retina 
of  her  soul.  She  saw  again  the  laughing  eyes, 
—  clean  eyes  with  naught  but  mischief  in  them ; 
she  saw  the  impish  mockery  of  the  lips  that 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      241 

leant  toward  hers,  lips  with  a  will  power  behind 
them.  "  Which  it 's  my  privilege  an'  my  duty 
right  here  an'  now  to  do." 

At  once  the  girl  was  furiously  angry  with 
herself  for  permitting  this  softening  picture  to 
come  to  her.  Her  heart  steeled  itself  against 
the  insidious  voice  of  any  counsel  for  the  de- 
fense. And  so  over  an  endless  treadmill  wear- 
ily Hilma  Ring's  soul  climbed  and  climbed 
while  miles  unreeled  themselves  behind  her  and 
all  the  Big  Country  round  about  lay  glorious  in 
the  morning. 

Not  once  did  the  man  before  her  look  back. 

Finally  they  descended  a  long  gentle  slope 
to  a  road  that  wound  about  its  base  —  the  first 
road  they  had  seen  since  they  left  Cattle  Kate's 
country.  Reaching  it,  Original  brought  Tige 
to  a  halt  and  turned. 

"  Your  way  lies  over  yonder."  He  gave  a 
sweep  of  his  arm  along  the  road  to  the  south. 
"  You  can't  miss  the  road  in  daylight.  I  '11 
tell  Lonny  Moore  about  the  horse  you  're  ridin', 
an'  he  can  send  for  it." 

He  gravely  lifted  his  hat,  turned  and  can- 
tered to  the  north,  leaving  the  girl  staring. 


CHAPTER   XX 

When,  baffled  by  bars,  the  mob  in  the  Two 
Moons  jail  had  sent  a  shot  at  a  flickering  candle 
flame  and  the  life  of  him  known  as  the  Killer 
had  gone  out  with  a  chauvinistic  grace  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  record  that  had  won  his 
grim  sobriquet,  the  cry  went  up:  "Where's 
Zang  Whistler?  Turn  loose  Zang  Whistler." 
Every  remaining  cell  in  the  block  was  searched 
from  without ;  all  were  empty.  Then  the  mob 
broke  into  segments,  scouring  the  courthouse 
and  the  living  quarters  contiguous  to  the  jail 
for  Sheriff  Agnew  and  the  prisoner  believed 
by  him  to  have  been  smuggled  to  a  secret  hiding 
place. 

Whistler,  true  to  his  pledged  word,  had  re- 
mained in  the  darkened  room,  waiting  at  the 
window  for  the  turn  of  events.  There  a  dozen 
of  the  townsmen  found  him  and  acclaimed  him 
with  cheers. 

"  Make   yourself    scarce,    Zang,"   was   the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      243 

cheerful  admonition  boomed  at  him  by  Hans- 
comb,  the  blacksmith.  "  We  're  the  whole 
court  and  jury,  an'  we  find  you  not  guilty. 
We  just  found  the  Killer  guilty,  the  vote  being 
unanimous." 

The  outlaw,  blinking  at  the  light  one  of  the 
men  carried,  hesitated  and  seemed  to  show  no 
interest  in  the  freedom  offered  him. 

"Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Don't 
you  want  to  be  turned  loose?  " 

"  Thanks,  boys,  I  do,"  he  answered  hesi- 
tantly. "  But  there  's  a  girl  I  'm  sort  a  looking 
after.  She  was  round  here  somewhere  when 
Agnew  locked  me  up  and " 

"  Oh,  he  means  that  yaller-haired  beauty  that 

come  riding  in  with  him  and  Uncle  Alf  ridin' 

herd  on  the  Killer,"  piped  an  inspired  one. 

'  You  're  all  right,  you  are,  Zang.     You  're  a 

picker!     Cm  on,  we  '11  find  her  for  you." 

Another  group  of  the  mob,  meanwhile,  had 
found  Sheriff  Red  Agnew  stretched  uncon- 
scious in  a  bedroom  by  the  side  of  an  opened 
window.  They  had  the  big  man  sitting  up  and 
gagging  over  fiery  liquor  poured  in  generous 
quantity  down  his  throat  when  Whistler  and 
his  convoy  arrived.  Agnew  sent  a  dazed  look 
at  Whistler. 


244      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"  You  see,  sheriff,  somebody  's  took  the  law 
outa  your  hands,  an'  they  say  I  'm  free,"  the 
outlaw  explained  a  little  sheepishly.  "  Of 
course,  if  you  're  wishful  to  run  counter " 

"Why,  you  poor  orphan  idjit,"  the  black- 
smith caught  him  up.  "  Do  I  hear  you 
pleadin'  with  Red  Agnew  here  to  lock  you  up 
again?  Vamose  while  the  court 's  feelin'  its 
oats  and  is  kind  to  you." 

"  Just  let  me  have  a  word  alone  with  Agnew 
here,  boys,"  Zang  pleaded,  "  then  I  '11  do  what- 
ever you  want."  The  crowd,  complaisant  in 
its  triumph  of  the  night,  backed  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  the  two  alone.  Zang  helped  Ag- 
new to  his  feet  and  sat  him  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed. 

"Where's  the  girl,  Red?"  he  questioned 
tensely. 

"  Gone,  Zang.  Kidnapped,  I  'm  afraid,  by 
the  cow-punchers."  Zang  started  and  his  hand 
fell  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Pull  yourself  together,  Red,"  he  urged. 
"  Do  a  little  thinking  before  you  talk  wild. 
What  do  you  mean,  kidnapped?  " 

"  Mean  what  I  say.  After  I  'd  brought  you 
down  from  the  cell  house  I  come  in  here  to  get 
the  girl,  like  I  promised  you.     She  's  not  here. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      245 

But  just  the  minute  I  see  this,  in  through  the 
window  there  comes  Timberline  Todd  and  a 
lot  of  others,  and  they  tackle  me  and  put  me 
out.  What 's  the  answer?  They  'd  grabbed 
her  just  before  I  come  in  and  were  planning  to 
rush  the  jail  through  this  way  while  a  bunch  of 
their  outfit  was  keeping  the  town  crowd  busy 
on  the  street  out  front." 

The  leader  of  Teapot  Spout  strove  desper- 
ately to  get  a  grip  on  himself.  The  other's  de- 
ductions seemed  unassailable ;  he  could  conceive 
no  reason  why  Hilma  should  have  fled  the  pro- 
tection of  the  sheriff's  quarters,  particularly 
with  the  uproar  and  shooting  on  the  street; 
there  was  none  in  Two  Moons,  he  believed,  to 
whom  she  could  have  gone.  But  —  kidnap- 
ping by  the  cow-punchers  —  why  —  why? 
Suddenly  a  thought  drove  home : 

"  Red,  you  did  n't  see  this  here  Original  Bill 
pile  in  through  the  window  along  with  the 
rest?" 

"  No,  Zang.  That  long  old  pine  marten 
Timberline  Todd  's  only  one  I  recognized,  and 
when  I  land  a  warrant  on  to  him,  he  's  going  to 
look  through  bars  a  mighty  long  time.  What 
makes  you  mix  up  Blunt  in  this  thing?  He  al- 
ways plays  'em  from  the  top  of  the  pack  pretty 


246      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

regular  and  square,  even  if  he  does  make  his 
salt  off  the  cattle  outfits." 

Zang  did  not  answer.  His  mind  was  racing 
in  an  effort  to  find  support  for  the  swift  suspi- 
cion lodged  there.  This  Original  Bill  was  a 
man  of  infinite  resource.  Zang  remembered 
that  from  the  old  days  of  their  association  to- 
gether with  the  trail  herds.  The  tribute  was 
emphasized  by  recollection,  too,  of  the  man's 
many  stratagems  in  their  more  recent  private 
warfare.  He  dismissed  as  untenable  the  pre- 
mise that  the  range  inspector  had  been 
prompted  to  spirit  away  the  girl  to  satisfy  any 
private  grudge  arising  out  of  the  fight  in 
Hilma's  cabin;  Original  was  not  one  to  hound 
a  woman.  But  —  and  here  suspicion  nearly 
gave  way  to  conviction  —  Blunt  had  seen 
enough  to  guess  the  hold  Hilma  had  upon  Zang 
Whistler;  forestalling  the  release  of  Zang 
Whistler  by  the  mob,  would  not  his  shrewdness 
have  prompted  him  to  gain  possession  of  the 
girl  in  order  that  he  might  lead  her  questing 
lover  into  a  trap? 

"  Well,  Red,  reckon  I  '11  go  get  my  little  hoss 
an'  get  busy.  I  just  got  to  find  Hilma." 
Zang  put  out  a  hand  to  meet  the  sheriff's. 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  Zang,"  the  unconven- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      247 

tional  right  arm  of  the  law  encouraged.  "  But 
don't  linger  too  long  round  town.  When 
things  quiet  down,  if  I  should  find  you  in  Two 
Moons,  why  I  'd  have  to  take  you  up  again, 
Zang.     Duty  is  duty,  you  know." 

The  outlaw  went  out  to  the  shed  stable  be- 
hind the  jail  to  saddle  his  horse.  He  found 
there,  hanging  on  the  peg  above  Hilma's 
saddle,  a  blue  gingham  apron  done  into  a 
bundle,  —  the  girl's  pitiful  collection  of  treas- 
ures gathered  that  day,  now  seeming  ages  past, 
when  she  had  closed  her  cabin  on  Teapot  and 
started  to  ride  with  him  to  the  Spout.  Rever- 
ently Zang  lifted  the  bundle  to  his  own  saddle 
horn,  then  he  turned  his  horse  out  of  the  jail 
yard  and  down  Main  Street,  still  boiling  in  the 
afterthroes  of  the  night's  passion. 

Whipped  by  a  cold  and  deadly  resolve,  the 
big  outlaw's  eyes  under  their  shadowing  hat 
brim  were  those  of  a  stalking  tiger.  They 
leaped  from  face  to  face  in  the  fluxes  and  eddies 
of  men  the  pools  of  light  across  the  road  illu- 
mined. Though  his  injured  right  hand  was 
stiff  in  splints  and  bandages,  all  the  power  and 
the  cunning  of  him  lay  tingling  in  his  ready  left. 
A  more  dangerous  man  never  ranged  Two 
Moons'  single  street. 


248      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Zang  Whistler  was  looking  for  Original  Bill 
Blunt.  Haply  found,  the  issues  of  life  and 
death  between  them  would  hang  on  the  balance 
of  a  hair.  But  at  that  hour  the  object  of  the 
outlaw's  search  was  riding  alone  the  salt-lick 
trail  away  out  under  the  stars  where  somewhere 
in  the  bad  lands  beyond  Crazy  Squaw  Hilma 
Ring  blundered  in  the  mazes  of  the  night  and 
the  illimitable  labyrinth  of  the  Big  Country. 

The  sardonic  genius  of  the  Big  Country  had 
wrought  but  part  of  her  will  in  Two  Moons 
that  night.  There  in  a  whirlpool  of  her  own 
devising  had  been  sucked  all  the  bitter  hates 
and  tiger  ferocities  she  had  been  brewing  out  on 
the  clean  spaces  of  the  wide  range.  There  she 
had  contrived  a  blood  reckoning  on  the  tally  of 
little  pebbles  found  on  dead  men's  foreheads ;  a 
Killer  had  received  in  full  the  harvest  of  his 
sowing.  A  desperate  rallying  of  the  range 
clan  had  hurled  itself  in  a  wave  against  the  wall 
of  its  enemies  and  fallen  back  broken ;  even  now 
hurrying  groups  of  horsemen  coursed  the  di- 
vides to  find  refuge  from  the  wrath  that  seethed 
under  the  town's  yellow  lights.  Unstable  law, 
newly  come  to  the  Big  Country,  had  been  har- 
ried and  scorned  and  made  a  mockery.  An- 
archy of  the  wolf  pack  was  abroad. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      249 

Yes,  and  the  little  human  puppets  under  the 
finger  of  this  mocking  genius  were  chips  wildly 
eddying  in  the  whirlpool  of  her  caprice.  A 
Von  Tromp,  sore  in  body,  bitter  in  spirit,  sat 
like  a  coiled  rattler  in  a  swaying  stage  carrying 
him  south  to  the  railroad  and  that  mysterious 
ring  of  the  big  people  who  employed  him;  he 
was  hurrying  to  report  nothing  less  than  a 
scourge  of  fire  competent  to  prevent  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  cattle  clan.  A  Hilma  Ring,  be- 
come horse  thief,  was  lost  in  the  Big  Country, 
and  two  men  sought  her,  —  one  a  lover.  A 
wilderness  preacher  and  prophet  called  upon 
his  Maker  to  witness  that  he,  and  he  alone,  had 
wrought  the  vengeance  of  the  Most  High. 

But  the  tale  was  not  told;  the  comedy  had 
yet  another  act.  Having  achieved  confusion 
in  the  Big  Country,  the  capricious  spirit  went 
elsewhere  for  her  instruments  of  denouement. 

Far,  far  to  the  south  where  the  deserts  lap 
like  seas  about  raw  towns  and  all  the  outlaw 
trails  converge  before  leaping  the  Line  to  Mex- 
ico, certain  agents  whose  names  need  not  ap- 
pear in  this  chronicle  —  go  to  the  Big  Country 
to-day  and  these  names  will  be  told  you  in 
whispers  —  certain  agents,  I  say,  were  busy  at 
their  peculiar  devices.     In  the  back  rooms  of 


250      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

saloons  in  this  and  that  town  known  throughout 
the  Southwest  as  bad,  these  agents  talked  with 
men  of  hard  features  and  harder  lives. 

They  talked  glibly,  did  these  agents,  of  easy 
money.  They  said  they  were  recruiting  a 
force  of  regulators  who  were  to  clean  up  cattle 
thieves.  So  many  dollars  down,  all  expenses 
paid,  grub  and  horse  for  every  man ;  and  in  the 
end,  when  everything  was  tidied  up,  a  fat  bonus 
for  every  man  employed. 

Whispers  passed  through  the  walls  of  these 
saloon  back  rooms  in  tough  desert  towns.  The 
whispers  were  of  something  called  the  Inva- 
sion. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

A  week  had  passed  since  the  night  of  mad- 
ness in  Two  Moons.  Hilma  Ring  —  marvel- 
ing at  the  freedom  she  had  received  from  the 
hands  of  Original  Bill,  understanding  this  ac- 
tion not  at  all  nor  the  man  who  had  punished 
her  with  a  kiss,  then  piloted  her  out  of  Cattle 
Kate's  country  and  set  her  on  her  own  road  — 
Hilma  lived  on  the  diminishing  store  of  flour 
and  bacon  in  her  own  cabin.  She  lived  adven- 
titiously from  hour  to  hour,  without  a  plan. 
The  soul  of  the  girl  drifted  without  anchorage. 
Time  on  time  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  a 
pledged  word  urged  her  return  to  Two  Moons 
where  —  having  heard  no  word  to  the  contrary 
—  she  believed  Zang  Whistler  to  be  still  in  jail. 
But  at  every  such  prompting,  the  laughing  eyes 
and  smiling  white  teeth  of  the  man  called  Orig- 
inal Bill  arose  across  the  road  to  town,  block- 
ing it  for  her  with  a  host  of  fears.  Yes,  and 
with  something  else,  —  some  curious,  undefin- 


-25 2      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

®He  menace  of  mastery  for  which  the  girl's 
mind  could  not  find  a  word  vehicle. 

She  wished  never  to  meet  this  man  again. 
She  prayed  earnestly  she  might  meet  him  once, 
she  with  a  rifle  in  her  hands.  So  the  pendulum 
of  her  impulses  swung,  coming  never  to  a  rest. 
She  was  alternately  frightened  and  furiously 
angry  when  she  discovered  that  whenever  she 
thought  of  Zang  Whistler,  the  wind-roughened 
features  of  the  outlaw  immediately  faded  and 
melted  into  the  round,  smiling  face  of  this 
enemy.  She  could  see  again  just  the  look  of 
dancing  mischief  that  had  filled  those  eyes ;  she 
could  feel  the  touch  of  his  lips 

Zang  Whistler,  after  a  night's  prowling 
through  Two  Moons  without  encountering  the 
man  he  sought,  found  no  recourse  but  to  return 
to  Teapot  Spout.  His  further  presence  in  the 
town  might  embarrass  the  sheriff.  To  ride 
haphazard  out  to  the  cattle  ranges  on  a  hit-or- 
miss  search  for  Hilma  and  Original  would  be 
but  to  court  sudden  death  at  the  hands  of  any 
chance  rider.  His  useless  right  hand  was  a 
handicap  not  to  be  overlooked.  Before  he  left 
town  he  spread  word  of  Hilma's  disappearance 
among  a  few,  —  Uncle  Alf,  Woolly  Annie  and 
half  a  dozen  friends  besides  them.       Their 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      253 

promise  to  let  him  know  when  the  girl  turned 
up  or  whatever  might  be  news  of  her  was  little 
enough  comfort  to  carry  him  out  to  his  retreat 
in  the  foothills  of  the  Broken  Horns. 

The  man  was  wholly  under  the  spell  of  the 
girl's  magic  beauty.  In  a  vague  way  he 
thought  because  he  knew  her  beauty  he  knew 
her  soul.  Well  enough  Whistler  appreciated 
that  this  latter  was  not  yet  his  to  command. 
But  a  dogged  belief  that,  given  opportunity,  he 
could  establish  dominion  over  that  soul  buoyed 
him  up  through  all  the  agony  of  doubt  the 
thought  of  Hilma's  enforced  meeting  with 
Original  Bill  entailed. 

The  third  figure  in  this  cut-out  puzzle  of 
jumbled  destinies,  Original  Bill,  was  moving 
upon  a  serious  business  these  days  following 
the  mob  sway  in  town.  Not  once  did  he  return 
to  town  during  the  perfecting  of  his  plans,  for 
well  he  knew  that  spies  there  always  awaited 
eagerly  opportunity  to  pass  the  Spout  news  of 
his  comings  and  goings.  Instead  he  was  care- 
ful to  do  what  riding  was  necessary  only  by 
night  lest  even  the  most  casual  wayfarer  on  the 
road  might  by  a  careless  remark  in  town  spoil 
his  carefully  upbuilding  plans. 

So  under  the  stars  he  rode  from  home  ranch 


254      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

to  home  ranch  of  the  cattle  outfits,  recruiting 
his  force  for  the  assault  upon  the  Spout.  Here 
a  man  and  there  another,  all  known  to  him  for 
their  courage  from  beforetime.  Hard  riders, 
dead  shots,  die-hards;  these  were  the  men  he 
culled  from  among  the  clan's  best.  Wherever 
he  went  his  word  to  foremen  and  cow-punchers 
alike  was :  "  It 's  a  clean-up  now  or  we  all  go 
under." 

Grave  foremen,  knowing  the  trend  of  the 
country's  recent  events  against  them  and,  par- 
ticularly, the  disastrous  results  of  the  hot- 
heads' foray  against  the  mob  in  town,  permitted 
Original  his  pick  of  their  men;  if  he  cared  to 
stand  sponsor  for  this  extra-legal  expedient  in 
the  face  of  the  law's  failure  to  give  protection 
against  the  Spout  gang,  they  professed  them- 
selves with  him  to  the  finish. 

So  it  came  about  that  near  midnight  one 
night  when  the  Two  Moons'  events  lay  seven 
days  back,  a  cavalcade  of  phantoms  moved  un- 
der the  stars  south  from  the  Circle  Y  home 
ranch,  place  of  rendezvous,  in  the  direction  of 
Sioux  Pass  and  Teapot  Spout  beyond.  No 
road  was  followed,  for  Original  shunned  roads 
when  he  was  playing  his  game ;  smash  through 
the  untracked  expanse  of  the  divides  the  way 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      255 

stretched ;  here  a  ford  to  be  negotiated ;  there  an 
almost  perpendicular  coulee  bank  up  which  the 
two  outfit  wagons  had  to  be  dragged  with  block 
and  tackle.  Though  the  darkness  was  pitchy, 
Original  led  the  way  unerringly  as  a  man  in  his 
own  house. 

No  makeshift  force  was  his.  Twenty-seven 
horsemen  rode  with  him,  and  the  wranglers 
among  them  had  charge  of  two  remounts  to  a 
man,  —  a  remuda  of  the  swiftest  and  sturdiest 
beasts  the  Big  Country  possessed.  Two  heavy 
outfit  wagons  carried  grub,  extra  saddles,  bed- 
ding and  auxiliary  stores  of  cartridges  for  rifle 
and  six-shooter.  Not  since  Job  Brazil,  famous 
trail  driver  of  the  seventies,  had  to  shoot  his  way 
through  a  buffalo  herd  to  cut  a  path  for  the 
longhorns  had  the  Big  Country  seen  a  force 
such  as  this  bent  on  extermination  of  the  rus- 
tlers. 

Dawn  was  just  beginning  to  smear  the  east 
when  Original  headed  the  party  into  Bear 
Hole,  five  miles  away  from  the  northern 
reaches  of  the  Spout.  A  great  gash  in  the  bas- 
tions of  the  mountains,  this  Bear  Hole,  with 
perpendicular  cliffs  grudgingly  giving  space 
for  Muddy  Creek  to  break  through  to  the 
plains  beyond,  mouth  of  the  gorge  screened  by 


256      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

scrub  pines  and  a  thick  mantle  of  pines  draped 
over  the  tiny  flats  along  both  sides  of  the 
stream.  Here  bears  —  or  men  —  could  hide 
while  searchers  passed  within  a  few  yards  of 
them. 

In  the  deep  gloom  of  the  Hole  camp  was 
struck,  breakfast  cooked  and  the  men  of  the  ex- 
pedition lay  down  to  sleep  through  the  day  for 
the  coming  night's  work.  Original  alone  rode 
out  with  the  spreading  dawn  to  pursue  secret 
alleys  through  the  mountains  known  to  him 
only.  These  devious  goat  tracks  led  to  heights 
above  the  narrow  gorge  called  Teapot  Spout ; 
from  these  heights,  as  from  a  seat  in  a  theater 
gallery,  the  range  rider  could  survey  the  stage 
below,  where  a  drama  of  swift  action  was  to  be 
played. 

From  a  high  ledge  of  rim  rock  running  like  a 
comb  over  the  summit  of  a  beetling  cliff  behind 
the  Spout  Original  made  his  final  reconnois- 
sance.  With  Tige  bridle-tied  to  a  little  clump 
of  spruce  behind  the  ledge  and  he  himself  flat 
on  his  stomach,  glass  in  hand,  the  general  of  the 
little  field  force  concealed  in  Bear  Hole  spent 
hours  conning  the  land  below  him. 

Teapot  Spout  well  deserves  its  name.  It  is, 
in  truth,  a  spout  for  the  bowl  of  the  mountains 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      257 

behind  it  which  carries  the  creek  from  head- 
waters in  the  Broken  Horns  out  to  the  rolling 
country  through  a  twisted  bore  gashed  out  of 
the  living  rock  by  glacial  chisels.  Almost  due 
north  to  south  stretches  the  gorge,  twenty- 
seven  miles  in  extent.  In  its  northernmost 
reaches  it  narrows  to  a  chasm  less  than  three 
hundred  yards  from  lip  to  lip  of  the  almost  per- 
pendicular bounding  cliffs,  and  with  the  creek 
foaming  down  from  the  cascades  marking  its 
drop  over  the  lava  dike  that  heads  the  canon. 
Beyond  this  chasm  the  valley  grudgingly  widens 
into  green  meadows  through  which  the  stream 
loafs  in  meandering  course,  but  the  bounding 
walls  continue  rugged  almost  beyond  the  power 
of  man  or  beast  to  scale  until  at  the  southern 
gate  they  are  drawn  aside  in  a  wide  pass. 
Heavy  timber  throws  a  screen  along  the  lower 
reaches  of  Teapot  Spout. 

Even  to-day,  when  peaceful  ranches  dot  the 
floor  of  the  Spout  and  the  shuf-shuf  of  Tin 
Lizzies  sounds  where  once  the  yip-yip  of  Zang 
Whistler's  men  rounded  stolen  cattle  into  a 
trail  herd  for  surreptitious  markets  in  another 
State,  there  are  but  two  ways  into  the  moun- 
tains' treasure  box :  The  road  that  comes  from 
the  east  over  a  high  shoulder  of  one  bounding 


258      Trails   to   Two    Moons 

wall  up  to  the  old  Bar  C  Ranch  and  another 
passing  up  from  the  south  where  the  Tisdale 
ranch  stands  and  into  the  valley  through  the 
natural  gate  at  the  southernmost  end.  The 
Bar  C  Ranch  is  placed  just  where  the  northern 
gorge  broadens  into  the  gentler  expanses  of 
meadowland,  and  thence  the  road  carries  along 
the  course  of  the  stream  threading  the  valley. 

When  the  Spout  first  was  made  the  strong- 
hold of  brand  burners  and  train  robbers  in 
exile,  Bar  C  Ranch  became  a  nucleus  for  the 
outlaw  settlement,  and  at  the  Spout's  gate  the 
lawless  inhabitants  posted  their  defi:  "No 
cattle  cutting  in  this  valley.  Keep  out!" 
From  his  aerie  Original  could  see  the  cluster 
of  ranch  buildings  away  down  in  the  vivid 
green  plush  of  the  valley  floor :  Four  log  houses 
and  a  corral,  all  foreshortened  into  the  dimen- 
sions of  children's  toys.  ,  Thickly  scattered 
moving  dots  against  the  green  on  both  sides  of 
the  ribbon  of  water  he  knew  to  be  cattle,  — 
stolen  cattle  carrying  on  their  flanks  the  brands 
of  a  dozen  different  rightful  owners.  He  es- 
timated at  rough  guess  a  full  thousand  of  them 
and  judged  there  would  be  more  concealed  by 
the  screen  of  pines  farther  down  the  valley. 
Now  and  again  the  watcher  on  the  heights 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      259 

caught  a  glimpse  of  a  horseman  straddling  like 
a  beetle  down  the  ribbon  of  road. 

The  taint  of  unreality  hung  over  the  whole 
scene.  To  the  watcher  on  the  rim  rock  this 
colorful  bit  of  landscape,  all  green  and  silver 
streaked  where  white  water  spliced  the  mead- 
ows, and  set  in  the  deep  box  of  the  mountain's 
granite,  was  a  painting  in  a  shadow  box.  The 
rich  vein  of  poetry  that  ran  deep  below  the  sur- 
face of  Original's  nature  thrilled  to  the  scene. 
But  the  practical  problems  of  the  grim  business 
going  forward  did  not  permit  themselves  to  be 
long  obscured.  When  he  had  completed  in 
every  detail  his  survey  of  the  valley  Original 
turned  his  glass  to  the  perpendicular  wall  oppo- 
site where  he  lay  and  slowly  covered  every  inch 
of  its  surface. 

There  lay  a  secret  of  his  own  discovering  and 
which  he  had  shared  with  no  man.  He  called 
it  the  Ladder.  It  was  a  way  down  into  the 
Spout  unguessed  by  the  Spout's  unlovely  in- 
habitants. Once  before  he  had  used  it;  now 
the  Ladder  played  a  big  part  in  the  strategy  of 
the  attack. 

As  the  man's  field  glass  slowly  crept  across 
the  face  of  the  gray  rock,  tufted  here  and  there 
by  a  stunted  pine,  the  eye  behind  it  was  strain- 


260      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

ing  to  pick  up  remembered  guideposts.  Fi- 
nally the  glass  came  to  a  halt.  Into  its  circular 
field  had  suddenly  appeared  that  which  the 
watcher  sought. 

A  tortuous  crack  in  the  solid  wall  of  the 
gorge  it  was.  Here  a  sheer  apron  of  granite 
gave  it  a  pitch  downward  at  a  church-spire 
angle ;  there  the  fly  track  was  broken  by  a  series 
of  ledges  where  bushes  found  precarious  lodg- 
ment; the  whole  descent  appeared  little  less 
vertical  than  a  parachute  drop.  But  Original 
knew  from  his  past  essay  that  one  with  a  cool 
hand  and  a  sturdy  mount  under  him  could 
negotiate  that  Ladder,  —  at  a  risk.  It  was  an 
old  game  trail,  and  a  mountain-bred  horse  will 
go  anywhere  a  blacktail  may  lead.  The  foot 
of  the  Ladder  found  rest  in  a  concealing  pine 
wood  not  more  than  two  miles  from  the  group 
of  ranch  houses. 

Near  noon  Original  returned  to  the  hidden 
camp  in  Bear  Hole  and  rolled  himself  in  his 
blankets  to  sleep  until  sundown.  When  he 
awoke  his  men  had  stowed  all  in  the  outfit  wag- 
ons and  saddled  their  horses  in  readiness  for 
the  hike.  Original  called  them  about  him  and 
explained  the  plan  of  attack. 

"  Timberline  Todd  and  Hank  Rogers,  you 


Trails  to  Two  Moons      261 

two  come  with  me  for  a  little  pasear  down  into 
the  Spout  to-night.  Andy  Dor  son,  I  want  you 
to  take  charge  of  the  rest.  Make  a  wide  swing 
round  the  outside  of  the  valley  after  dark  as 
far  as  Tisdale's  ranch.  Don't  show  yourselves 
anywhere  close  to  the  ranch,  but  hide  out  in  a 
bunch  of  cottonwoods  you  '11  find  'long  the 
creek  bottom  between  Tisdale's  and  the  way 
into  the  Spout.  Soon  's  you  see  the  first  streak 
of  mornin'  saddle  up  fresh  broncs,  leavin'  two 
of  the  boys  to  keep  the  string  of  horses  there  in 
the  cottonwoods  —  which  we  '11  sure  need  fresh 
animals  when  we  come  larrupin'  out  of  the 
Spout. 

"  You  boys  make  into  the  Spout  past  Tis- 
dale's so  's  to  get  up  to  the  old  Bar  C  Ranch 
sometime  before  sunup.  You  '11  likely  not  see 
anybody  below  Bar  C  that 's  ready  to  give  you 
a  run,  but  if  you  do  just  tear  into  'em  an'  come 
a'runnin',  because  I  'm  figuring  on  landing 
on  to  the  bunch  when  they  're  having  their  hog 
an'  hominy.  You  '11  find  Timberline  an'  Hank 
here  an'  me  hiding  out  somewhere  on  the  road 
to  Bar  C  with  a  friend  or  two  "  —  here  Orig- 
inal grinned  —  "  that  is,  if  we  play  in  luck  to- 
night. I  'm  aimin'  to  cut  Zang  Whistler  an' 
maybe  one  or  two  of  his  little  playmates  out  of 


262      Trails   to    Two   Moons 

the  herd  to-night  before  the  concert  begins  to- 
morrow. 

"  An'  remember,  boys,  we  're  not  collecting 
scalps.  Don't  shoot  to  kill  until  you  have  to. 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  real  skilletin'  there  's 
no  call  for  anybody  to  be  a  perf  ec'  lady.  Now, 
Timberline  an'  Hank,  we  '11  just  mosey  along; 
we  got  a  pretty  piece  of  ridin'  to  do  before  it 
gets  dark." 

The  others  gave  the  three  a  silent  cheer  as 
they  rode  single  file  down  the  aisle  of  pine 
trunks  to  the  gateway  of  Bear  Hole  and  the 
adventure  that  lay  beyond. 

The  sun  was  just  down  when  the  three  came 
to  the  summit  of  the  Spout's  eastern  wall, 
where  the  topmost  granite  rung  of  Original's 
ladder  lay.  Below  them  the  Spout  already 
was  purple  with  shadows;  they  floated  like 
filmy  weed  on  the  surface  of  some  unruffled 
pool.  Beyond  and  behind,  the  high  cone  of 
Cloud's  Rest  was  a  beacon  of  cherry  red,  and 
the  lower  country  whence  they  had  come 
showed  faint  gold  for  unbroken  miles. 

"  Boys,"  said  Original,  "  we  're  headed  for  a 
bit  of  trick  ridin'  like  you  read  about  in  the 
fairy  books.  Give  your  HT  Mote  baits  their 
own  bit  an'  just  swing  with  'em  wherever  they 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      263 

go.  We  're  like  to  hit  bottom  all  in  a  bunch  if 
anybody  gets  rollicky  an'  starts  tellin'  his  beast 
where  to  head  in." 

So  saying,  Original  disappeared  over  the 
sheer  rim  of  the  precipice  as  if  he  had  ridden 
off  on  to  the  impalpable  scum  of  shadow  float- 
ing in  the  void. 

Little  Tige,  all  four  feet  bunched  like  a 
mountain  goat's,  took  the  slide  down  a  fifteen- 
foot  granite  apron  smooth  as  a  watch  crystal 
and  came  up  on  a  lateral  ledge  fringing  fear- 
some space.  Then  he  turned  to  the  left  and 
ambled  carelessly  along  a  precarious  footway 
to  the  next  swift  drop.  He  even  paused  to 
stretch  his  neck  and  browse  the  top  off  a 
scrubby  bush  that  clung  to  nothingness  below 
his  hoofs  as  if  to  show  the  following  and  reluc- 
tant horses  what  a  devil  of  a  beast  he  was  when 
it  came  to  playing  tag  on  church  steeples. 
Nickering  their  fears,  the  other  two  patterned 
their  tactics  after  Tige's. 

Now  sliding  on  their  haunches  so  that  their 
tails  dragged  behind  them,  now  mincingly  pick- 
ing their  steps  along  a  shelf  no  wider  than  the 
breadth  of  a  bandanna,  twisting  at  right-angled 
turns  for  a  leap  across  the  riven  bed  of  a  win- 
ter's torrent,  fetching  up  against  the  prickly 


264      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

spines  of  a  stunted  spruce  which  swayed  over 
space  with  the  impact  of  their  bodies  —  that 
ride  of  the  three  down  the  Ladder  to  Teapot 
Spout  is  tradition  in  the  Big  Country  even  to 
this  degenerate  day  of  the  rough-riding  flivver. 
The  dark  had  engulfed  them  before  the  screen- 
ing pines  on  the  valley  floor  marked  the  end  of 
the  descent,  and  the  last  hundred  yards  through 
a  bowlder-strewn  chute  were  made  with  even 
the  eyes  of  Chance  blindfolded. 

"  Whew ! "  Timberline  Todd  softly 
breathed  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  the 
sweat  of  fear  from  the  band.  "  Answer  me 
true,  my  son;  are  you  aimin'  to  go  up  this 
greased  skid  to  hell  when  we  finish  out  this 
little  job  of  work  down  here.  If  so  be,  just  tell 
the  boys  back  at  the  Hashknife  they  can  raffle 
off  my  gold  watch  for  a  keepsake." 

"  Why,  you  lily-livered  ole  backslider,"  Orig- 
inal reproved  with  silent  laughter.  "  That 's 
charlotte  rooshing  with  egg  frills  on  to  it  com- 
pared to  what 's  ahead  of  us." 

In  the  dark  security  of  the  pines  they  un- 
saddled to  give  their  beasts  a  rest  after  the 
muscle-cracking  strain  of  the  Ladder's  descent. 
Original,  moreover,  wished  to  give  Zang 
Whistler  and  his  gang  ample  time  to  settle 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      265 

down  for  the  night  before  attempting  his  foray 
on  Bar  C  Ranch. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  by  Original's  watch 
when  the  horses  were  saddled  and  the  start  was 
made  over  the  deadening  carpet  of  pine  needles 
for  the  road  and  the  nest  of  outlaws  down  the 
valley.  A  thin  sliver  of  a  moon  that  hung  low 
over  the  western  rim  of  the  Spout  gave  the  only 
light.  The  narrow  confines  of  this  gut  in  the 
mountains  were  ghostly  with  faint  stirrings  and 
whisperings  from  the  willow  fringe  along  the 
stream,  from  the  occasional  spruce  standing  in 
stiff  dignity  a  watch  over  the  valley's  sleeping 
creatures,  clean  and  unclean  equally.  As  they 
rode,  Original  mapped  his  plan  of  campaign: 

"  Boys,  I  'm  aimin'  to  cut  Zang  Whistler 
outa  the  herd  an'  run  him  down  the  valley  to 
where  we  '11  meet  up  with  the  rest  of  our  outfit 
in  the  morning.  Besides  the  little  private 
grudge  between  me  an'  Zang,  which  's  neither 
here  nor  there,  I  figger  with  him  away  the  rest 
of  his  gang  won't  be  so  spunky  when  the  big 
mill  starts  at  sunrise.  He  's  always  been  the 
brains  of  this  outfit  of  wolves ;  him  gone,  you  '11 
see  the  rest  just  chasin'  their  own  tails  when  our 
music  starts.  What 's  more,  we  three  can  get 
a  good  lay  of  the  ground  to-night  so  9s  to  make 


266      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

our  plans  aecordin'  when  the  main  outfit  joins 
us." 

"  Where  you  reckon  to  find  our  liT  Zang 
friend?"  Rogers  queried.  "Do  you  know 
which  's  his  boodwar,  as  the  fambly-fireside 
paper  calls  it?  " 

"  Zang  's  never  asked  me  to  drink  a  demmy- 
tass  of  chocolate  with  him  in  his  boo-do-war," 
Original  returned.  "  Which  it 's  been  mighty 
unsocial  of  him  an'  wounding  to  the  spirit.  I 
reckon  we  '11  just  project  round  until  we  find 
where  Zang's  bedroom  an'  bawth  happen  to  be. 
I  don't  aim  to  send  in  my  card  by  the  butler, 
neither." 

A  bend  in  the  road  showed  them,  ahead,  a 
dark  huddle  of  buildings,  four  in  all,  and  the 
spidery  bars  of  a  corral  beyond.  Three  of  the 
low  sod-roofed  houses  stood  together  in  a 
group;  the  fourth  was  a  little  way  apart. 
From  the  windows  of  two  of  them  yellow 
squares  of  light  cut  so  many  lozenges  through 
the  black  cloak  of  the  dark. 

"  That  far  one  would  be  where  Lonny  Tay- 
lor holes  out,  him  being  married,"  Original 
ventured  a  guess.  "  Zang,  I  take  it,  has  a 
house  to  himself,  an'  the  other  two  are  bunk 
houses  for  the  gang.     Only  way  we  can  spot 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      267 

Zang  is  to  ride  in  an'  have  a  look-see  all  round. 
But  remember,  boys,  don't  pull  a  trigger  unless 
it 's  a  matter  of  keeping  a  puncture  outa  your 
hide ;  a  butt  makes  no  noise  and 's  mighty 
handy  for  close  work." 

They  rode  under  a  group  of  alders  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  away  from  the  nearest  of  the  houses 
and  tethered  their  horses.  Then,  each  with  his 
.45  snuggled  in  the  palm  of  the  right  hand,  they 
approached  the  nearest  lighted  house,  half 
crawling,  Indian  fashion,  with  the  knuckles  of 
the  left  hand  touching  ground.  A  short  run 
across  a  patch  of  ground  lighted  by  two  win- 
dows brought  the  three  standing  back  against 
the  logs  of  the  house,  around  the  corner  from 
the  door. 

That  instant  the  scream  of  a  pony  sounded 
from  the  alder  thicket  where  they  had  tethered 
their  beasts. 

"Damn  that  watch-eyed  cayuse  of  mine!" 
Timberline  breathed.  "  Always  plays  the  goat 
with  his  teeth  when  a  stranger  hoss  is  round." 

They  heard  the  door  open;  they  could  feel, 
even  though  they  did  not  see,  the  presence  of  a 
man  in  the  doorway  straining  to  peer  through 
the  dark. 

"  Don't  see  nothin',  Zang,"  came  the  voice. 


268      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"  Must  be  that  new  hoss  we  lifted  off 'n  the 
Owens  ranch  gettin'  'nitiated  down  to  the  cor- 
ral. Some  fool  hoss  just  put  the  outlaw  brand 
on  to  him  with  his  teeth." 

The  door  closed.  The  three  against  the  wall 
nudged  one  another.  At  least  something  had 
come  of  the  minute  of  peril :  Zang  Whistler  was 
located. 

A  tense  hour  passed  in  waiting ;  waiting  until 
Whistler  or  his  companions  should  leave  the 
house.  For  the  number  of  them  was  not 
known,  and  it  was  not  part  of  Original's  strat- 
egy to  make  a  sally  in  force  which  would  result 
in  shooting  and  the  rousing  of  a  hornets'  nest 
about  his  ears.  Finally  through  a  crack  in  the 
clay  chinking  by  their  ears  came  the  noise  of  a 
table  pushed  back,  then  heavy  footfalls  on  the 
floor.     The  door  opened. 

"  Next  time  you  hold  up  a  kicker  to  your 
treys  an'  catch  an  ace-full,  Zang,  you  just  sell 
me  for  a  sucker! "  a  voice  called  back  into  the 
cabin.  Original  recognized  as  Zang's  the  voice 
of  the  outlaw  in  answer  from  the  interior.  He 
dared  peek  around  the  corner  of  the  house. 
Five  men  were  stalking  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  other  lighted  building.  The  door  was 
closed,  and  the  sound  of  a  bar  dropped  in  place 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      269 

behind  it  sent  Original's  heart  down  to  his  boot 
heels. 

Again  weary  waiting  until  the  quarry  should 
fall  into  slumber.  The  lights  went  out  in  the 
cabin  across  the  way.  Silence  of  sea  bottom 
settled  down  upon  the  outlaw  nest.  The  whole 
star-stippled  vault  of  the  night  seemed  to  bend 
low  to  catch  the  first  crack  of  crude  action  im- 
pending there  in  that  ghostly  rock  grave  of  the 
mountains. 

Then  at  the  end  of  an  eternity  came  to  the 
ears  of  the  waiting  three  sounds  of  snoring 
through  the  logs.  In  two  different  keys! 
There  were  two  sleepers  in  there ! 

The  faces  of  the  three  were  turned  one  to- 
ward another.  Though  none  could  see  an- 
other's face,  each  felt  the  surprise  registered 
there.  Here  was  the  unexpected ;  here  a  com- 
plication not  anticipated. 

Original  drew  out  his  knife  and  bared  the 
spring  blade.  He  moved  under  the  first  win- 
dow to  the  front  of  the  house  and  gently  insin- 
uated the  knife  blade  under  the  sash.  Pres- 
sure on  the  handle  failed  to  budge  the  window; 
it  was  bolted  from  within.  He  tried  two  others 
with  similar  result.  The  door  he  knew  without 
trying  to  be  barred  inside. 


270      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

He  was  on  the  point  of  despairing  when 
Timberline  touched  him  on  the  arm  and 
pointed  to  another  window,  hitherto  over- 
looked. It  was  up  under  the  peak  of  the  roof, 
evidently  looking  out  from  a  loft  within.  The 
distance  from  ground  to  sill  was  not  more  than 
ten  feet.  Original  measured  the  distance  with 
a  calculating  eye,  then  beckoned  his  compan- 
ions to  stand  beneath  the  window  with  arms 
locked  over  each  other's  shoulders. 

"  I  '11  go  it  alone,"  he  breathed.  "  If  you 
hear  any  trouble  inside  don't  try  to  take  on  the 
crowd  that  will  swarm  down.  Cut  for  the 
horses  an'  make  it  down  toward  Tisdale's  to 
meet  up  with  the  rest  of  our  outfit.  I  can 
stand  off  this  bunch  'til  they  come." 

With  this  parting  injunction  the  lithe  little 
man  swarmed  up  the  bodies  of  his  friends  until 
he  stood  on  their  shoulders.  Once  more  the 
knife  blade  under  a  sash.  This  time  the  sash 
rose  easily.  Original  slowly  pushed  it  high, 
gave  a  light  spring  from  supporting  shoulders 
and  disappeared  through  the  black  square  in 
the  log  wall.  The  duet  of  snores  remained  un- 
broken. 

The  instant  Original's  carefully  lowered  toes 
struck  flooring  beneath  the  window  the  whole 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      271 

body  of  him  composed  itself  into  a  velvet  calm 
of  ordered  nerves  and  muscles  prime  to  leap  to 
the  reflexes  of  thought.  Always  it  was  this 
way  with  the  range  inspector  when  he  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  action  where  the  gauge  of  his 
life  was  laid  in  the  scales;  a  clarity  like  dawn 
light  swept  over  his  mind,  and  every  spring  in 
his  body  was  at  the  instant  call  of  necessity. 
Exaltation  would  be  the  word  to  comprehend 
all. 

He  remained  by  the  single  window  of  the  loft 
until  his  eyes  had  accustomed  themselves  to  the 
deeper  gloom  under  the  roof.  Slowly  sugges- 
tions of  shapes  and  bulks  came  to  his  brain,  — 
the  sharp  angle  of  the  roof  meeting  at  a  ridge- 
pole, here  and  there  a  box.  He  stooped  and 
his  sentient  fingers  spread  before  him  to  feel  a 
way.  One  step  —  another.  He  placed  each 
foot  as  a  stalking  cat  might.  Now  a  quick  look 
over  one  shoulder  showed  the  dim  square  of  the 
window  miles  away,  yet  he  had  moved  but  two 
paces. 

One  groping  hand  encountered  an  upright 
pole.  The  other  hand  instantly  shot  out  to  find 
the  hoped-for  mate  of  that  pole.  It  was  found. 
Here  was  the  ladder  dropping  to  the  room  be- 
low where  the  sleepers  were.     Now,  steadying 


272      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

himself  against  the  ladder  head,  Original  re- 
moved first  one  boot,  then  the  other.  He  looped 
them  over  his  shoulders  with  his  bandanna  tied 
between  their  straps,  and  his  stockinged  feet 
groped  for  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder.  Min- 
utes were  consumed  by  his  painstaking  descent ; 
each  rung  was  first  tested  for  squeaks  with  a 
light  pressure  of  the  foot  before  his  whole 
weight  was  placed  upon  it. 

He  stood,  at  last,  on  the  floor.  The  gloom 
was  a  little  less  dense  than  that  above,  for  three 
pallid  squares  against  the  walls  marked  win- 
dows giving  starlight.  One  source  of  ster- 
torous uproar  in  the  dark  seemed  almost  within 
touch  of  his  left  hand ;  the  other  was  somewhere 
across  the  room.  Guessing  at  the  position  of 
the  door  between  two  windows,  Original  cau- 
tiously groped  a  way  thither  and  was  rewarded 
by  finding  a  heavy  beam  under  his  hand.  He 
hesitated  to  draw  it  back.  Luck  had  played 
with  him  generously  so  far,  but  dare  he  pre- 
sume once  more  on  fickle  favor  for  the  sake  of 
insuring  a  safe  retreat  in  case  of  difficulties? 

With  his  shoulder  against  the  door  to  ease 
any  friction,  the  little  fighter  inched  back  the 
beam.  It  seemed  to  him  he  had  moved  full 
forty  feet  of  the  thing  before  a  faint  creak  from 


Trails   to   Two    Moons      273 

the  door  warned  that  it  was  free  to  swing  in- 
ward. More  Original  dared  not  attempt ;  with 
the  door  on  the  jar  he  could  get  out  on  neces- 
sity. 

Still  the  chorus  of  the  sleepers  carried  its 
leitmotif  thunderously. 

When  he  had  crawled  in  the  upper  window 
and  painfully  descended  the  ladder  Original 
was  still  lacking  any  definite  plan  for  the  cap- 
ture of  the  sleepers.  That  there  should  be 
two  instead  of  the  one  he  wanted  was  an  em- 
barrassment unlooked  for.  Had  he  only  to 
reckon  with  Whistler  he  would  have  gone  to  the 
man's  bunk,  thrown  himself  on  the  sleeper  and 
throttled  him  before  he  could  make  an  outcry. 
But  with  two  men,  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
room  this  course  would  invite  disaster.  The 
sound  of  a  struggle  would  bring  the  second 
man  on  his  back.  True,  he  might  have  risked 
opening  the  door  and  summoning  his  two  aides 
in  to  help  him,  but  a  stiff  pride  denied  this; 
Original  desired  to  play  a  lone  hand  and  bring 
out  his  man  without  assistance. 

He  bethought  himself  of  the  card  game  that 
had  been  in  progress  before  Zang's  companions 
departed.  That  would  mean  a  lamp  on  the 
table.     With  infinite  caution  he  groped  until 


274      Trails   to   Two    Moons 

his  thigh  touched  a  table  edge ;  swiftly  flitting 
hands  searched  for  and  found  a  lamp,  softly 
lifted  the  shade  from  its  socket. 

Then  a  match.  He  struck  it  with  his  left 
hand,  fingers  curled  around  to  hide  the  tiny 
blue  flame.  His  gun  was  ready  in  his  right. 
The  little  stick  was  an  unconscionable  time 
catching  the  flame.  When  it  did  Original 
touched  fire  to  the  lamp's  wick.  With  a  single 
swift  move  he  had  set  the  burning  lamp,  minus 
its  chimney,  on  the  floor  before  the  table  and 
leaped  back  into  the  shadow  where  the  smoky 
tongue  of  flame  could  not  search  him  out. 

By  the  light  he  saw  a  blond  head  he  recog- 
nized as  Whistler's  stir  in  a  bunk  not  five  feet 
away.  With  a  broad  sweep  of  his  left  arm  he 
sent  the  lamp  chimney  crashing  on  the  floor 
beneath  Whistler's  bunk. 

"Wake  up  —  you!"  Original  called  in  a 
voice  that  could  carry  to  his  aides  outside. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

The  crash  of  the  shattered  lamp  chimney 
brought  Whistler  broad  awake,  and  the  in- 
stinctive prick  of  danger  sent  him  sprawling 
out  of  his  bunk  before  ever  his  eyes  could  com- 
prehend its  nature.  His  stockinged  feet 
plumped  down  upon  the  broken  glass,  even  as 
Original  had  designed,  and  with  an  oath  the  big 
outlaw  leaped  clear. 

"  Hist  'em,  Zang,"  came  the  cold  voice  out 
of  the  streaked  shadows  beyond  the  table. 
"  An'  not  a  peep  from  you  or  you  're  a  dead 
man." 

Up  went  Whistler's  hands.  His  face  in  the 
smoky  light  was  a  study  in  abysmal  surprise. 
His  mouth,  opened  to  vent  a  yell,  remained  a 
swallow  hole  in  the  frozen  stump  of  his  coun- 
tenance when  the  round  eye  of  Original's  .45 
commanded  silence. 

A  noise  of  scrabbling  feet  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room.     Without  so  much  as  turning  his 


276      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

eyes  thither,  Original  threw  a  warning  over  his 
shoulder : 

"  You,  back  there,  cast  your  eyes  to  that  win- 
dow over  by  the  door  an'  stay  put  in  your  bunk. 
This  place  isn't  going  to  be  healthy  for  to  move 
round  in." 

A  big  hulk  of  a  man,  bearded  like  a  chimpan- 
zee, halted  halfway  out  of  his  bunk  and  did  as 
the  strange  voice  bade.  A  face  wearing  a 
happy  grin  was  pressed  against  the  glass  of  the 
window;  also  the  muzzle  of  a  gun  wickedly 
looking  squarely  at  him.  The  face  and  the 
gun  were  Timberline  Todd's.  Now  the  door 
was  suddenly  pushed  open  and  Hank  Rogers 
entered. 

"I  call  this  pretty  work,  Original  — 
pretty!"  he  caroled  exultantly.  "What  liT 
thing  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  There  's  a  reata  over  on  that  peg  behind 
you,"  Original  commanded.  "  Give  that  big 
woolly  a  tie."  Then  as  he  walked  slowly  over 
toward  Zang.  "  I  asks  your  pardon,  Zang, 
for  bustin'  in  this  way  on  your  beauty  sleep. 
It  ain't  reg'lar  nohow,  but  since  you  never  did 
invite  me  to  come  an'  see  you  an'  I  've  been 
mighty  wishful  for  to  make  your  closer  ac- 
quaintance, I  just  natch'ly  had  to  pick  my 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      277 

own  time.  You  can  put  'em  down  now, 
Zang,  so  's  I  can  try  out  a  little  fit  about  your 
wrists." 

The  pair  of  steel  wristlets  that  once  before 
had  linked  the  outlaw's  hands  that  day  of  the 
fight  in  Hilma's  cabin  now  glinted  in  Original's 
left  hand.  With  his  right  he  still  kept  Zang 
covered.  The  man's  features  now  had  clotted 
into  deadly  hate.  He  seemed  almost  on  the 
point  of  throwing  caution  to  the  winds  and 
leaping  upon  the  little  range  inspector,  who 
stood  smiling  and  with  the  waiting  handcuffs. 

"I  oughta 've  let  her  kill  you,  Blunt,  that 
last  time  we  met  up,"  the  outlaw  snarled. 
"  She  fought  me  because  I  took  the  gun  from 
her  when  she  was  just  about  to  put  you  out. 
I  'm  dead  sorry  I  did." 

Original  clicked  the  cuffs  about  Zang's  wrists 
as  he  answered  lightly : 

"  She  's  a  nice  girl,  Zang  —  leastways,  I  've 
found  her  so.  But  rough  —  rough  as  a  porcu- 
pine's back.  I  'm  beholden  to  you,  Zang,  for 
teachin'  her  good  manners.  Now  you  '11  ex- 
cuse me,  Zang,  but  I  'm  not  copperin'  any  bets 

right  here  and  so "     He  finished  by  deftly 

gagging  the  man  with  a  handkerchief  and  a 
small  square  of  wood  he  fished  from  a  pocket. 


278      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

Over  the  binding  folds  of  the  bandanna  Whis- 
tler's eyes  blazed  like  a  cornered  wolf's. 

Hank  Rogers  had  finished  his  job  of  binding 
the  other  outlaw's  arms  to  his  side  with  a  handy 
loop  left  round  the  throat  to  be  tightened  for 
purposes  of  persuasion.  Him  Original  also 
gagged.  When  both  prisoners  were  at  the 
door  Original  blew  out  the  light.  Timberline, 
chuckling  softly,  joined  them  at  the  door.  The 
two  helpless  men  were  swiftly  propelled  across 
to  the  alder  thicket  where  the  horses  waited. 
Zang  and  his  bodyguard  —  for  such  the  captors 
judged  the  second  man  to  be  —  were,  helped  to 
saddles;  Timber  line  and  Rogers  mounted  be- 
hind them,  and  a  wide  circuit  of  the  little  settle- 
ment was  made  before  the  road  to  the  valley 
door  and  Tisdale's  beyond  was  resumed. 

When  they  had  ridden  a  mile  from  Bar  C 
Ranch  Original  pushed  his  horse  alongside  of 
the  one  that  was  carrying  Zang  and  released 
the  gag  from  his  mouth.  The  second  prisoner 
was  similarly  freed.  Whistler  voiced  no  word, 
either  of  appreciation  or  of  comment.  The 
man  was  roweled  by  a  burning  question  which 
his  pride  would  not  permit  him  to  voice. 
What  had  Original  done  with  Hilma;  where 
was  she  now?     Was  this  daring  sally  into  the 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      279 

Spout  —  and  Zang  could  not  withhold  secret 
admiration  for  his  enemy's  boldness  —  was  this 
but  a  part  with  some  plan  of  Blunt's  which 
somehow  involved  the  girl? 

Zang  Whistler  rode  through  the  night  to  an 
unknowable  destiny  with  his  whole  spiritual  be- 
ing coiled  back  on  itself  like  a  cobra  ready  to 
strike. 

Where  the  faint  loom  of  the  mountains  ahead 
parted  to  mark  the  gate  out  of  the  Spout  Orig- 
inal ordered  a  turn  off  the  road  and  into  the 
fringe  of  heavy  pine  woods  that  came  down 
from  the  eastern  slope  of  the  valley.  There  in 
secure  concealment  he  planned  to  await  the 
coming  of  his  reinforcements  with  the  dawn. 
The  prisoners  were  set  with  backs  to  tree 
trunks,  the  horses  were  tethered  by  their 
bridles,  ready  for  instant  mounting.  Original 
and  his  companions  settled  themselves  to  en- 
dure the  sharp  mountain  cold  and  the  monot- 
ony of  the  dragging  hours. 

Stars  paled  over  the  tops  of  the  pines  above 
their  heads,  and  the  rosy  banners  of  the  dawn 
began  to  unfold  against  somber  green.  Orig- 
inal, growing  restless,  began  looking  at  his 
watch  at  ten-minute  intervals.  The  road  was 
not  fifty  yards  away  from  the  covert  where  he 


280      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

had  established  the  hiding  place ;  momentarily 
he  expected  to  hear  the  noise  of  hoofs  which 
would  be  Andy  Dorson's  party  swinging  into 
the  Spout  for  the  early-morning  attack.  Fi- 
nally he  could  contain  his  patience  no  longer. 
Bidding  Timberline  and  Hank  remain  with  the 
prisoners,  he  mounted  Tige  and  pushed  cau- 
tiously out  of  the  pine  thicket  on  to  the  road. 

The  sky  was  pulsing  with  a  golden  and  crim- 
son glory,  telling  that  beyond  the  eastern  rim  of 
the  valley  the  sun  already  was  up.  It  was  full 
time  that  his  men,  directed  to  move  their  wag- 
ons and  remuda  by  night  to  a  cache  near  Tis- 
d  ale's  and  swing  into  the  Spout  by  the  Tisdale 
road  before  sunup,  should  be  on  hand.  It  was 
past  time,  in  fact.  Ere  this,  Original  reflected, 
the  kidnapping  of  Whistler  and  his  bodyguard 
from  the  cabin  at  Bar  C  must  have  been  discov- 
ered. Any  sort  of  trailer  among  the  outlaws 
could  readily  read  the  tale  told  by  the  hoofs  of 
three  strange  horses  and  pursuit  was  inevitable 
if  it  were  not  already  started. 

Once  again  he  read  his  watch ;  it  said  five-fif- 
teen. He  had  just  turned  Tige  down  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  the  valley  gate,  a  mile  away, 
when  the  noise  his  ears  had  strained  to  hear 
came  faintly  to  them  —  a  beat-beat  of  hoofs. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      281 

But  the  pulse  beat  of  the  hoofs  sounded  from 
the  direction  of  the  outlaws'  roost  up  the  valley ! 

Original  whirled  Tige  around  on  his 
haunches  and  dashed  back  into  the  thicket  of 
pines.  He  spoke  no  word  when  he  came  to  the 
circle  of  seated  men,  but  the  look  on  his  face 
sent  Timberline  and  Hank  leaping  for  their 
saddles.  Original  dismounted  before  the  big 
tree  against  which  Zang  and  the  other  prisoner 
were  backed.     He  spoke  to  them  very  quietly: 

"  Boys,  I  don't  make  it  a  habit  to  be  careless 
with  a  gun  "  —  his  weapon  now  was  in  his  hand 
—  "  but  for  the  next  five  minutes  any  conversa- 
tion —  even  so  much  as  a  sneeze  from  either  of 
you  —  is  goin'  to  drop  this  hammer." 

Now  the  noise  of  the  approaching  horses 
came  to  all.  Zang's  face  lightened  and  an 
eager  light  played  in  his  eyes.  He  grinned 
wickedly  at  Original,  who  stood  over  him,  but 
the  mute  round  mouth  of  steel  so  near  his  made 
silence  infectious. 

A  tense  moment  wherein  the  hearts  of  the 
three  invaders  of  the  Spout's  outlaw  territory 
raced  riotously ;  another,  and  the  pound-pound 
of  many  galloping  hoofs  passed  the  pine  thicket 
and  grew  less  as  the  pursuers  swept  on  down 
the  valley.     Blindly  they  were  riding,  with  no 


282      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

eyes  to  what  the  road  could  tell  them,  else  al- 
ready the  covert  would  be  smoking  battle. 

Hardly  had  Original  and  his  companions 
caught  their  breath  when  sharp  on  the  morn- 
ing's stillness  came  a  volley  of  shots  from  the 
direction  of  the  outlaw  settlement. 

"  Hark  you!  "  Timber  line  exploded.  "  Dor- 
son  an'  his  pore  yearlin'  id  jits  took  the  wrong 
road  —  come  over  the  east  shoulder  by  the  Bar 
C  road  'stead  of  past  Tisdale's." 

"  And  where  does  that  leave  us?  "  Original 
added,  his  lips  twisting  in  a  wry  smile. 
"  Trapped  I  'd  say," 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

The  morning  swift  events  were  going  for- 
ward in  the  Spout  found  Hilma  Ring,  ten  miles 
away  on  the  lower  reaches  of  Teapot,  prepar- 
ing to  flee  from  the  loneliness  and  the  oppres- 
sion of  conflicting  doubts  which  had  been  ever 
at  her  elbow  since  that  day,  a  week  gone,  when 
she  had  ridden  back  to  her  cabin  after  the  en- 
counter with  Original  in  the  wild  country  by 
Crazy  Squaw. 

Seven  days  and  nights  the  girl  had  been  alone, 
seeing  but  one  human  soul  and  that  the  livery- 
man who  had  brought  her  horse,  Christian,  out 
from  town  in  exchange  for  the  one  Original  had 
forced  her  to  mount  when  he  recovered  the 
stolen  Tige  from  her.  Seven  days  and  nights 
had  she  groped  in  the  dark  labyrinth  called  lif e, 
seeking  a  sure  path  out  of  all  the  bewildering 
perplexities  that  encompassed  her.  The 
steady  espionage  of  the  wilderness  upon  her  — 
blank,  impersonal  stare  of  the  mountains  by 


284      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

day  and  a  myriad  winking  eyes  by  night  — 
soon  would  drive  her  mad,  Hilma  thought. 
She  had  heard  her  father  tell  of  old  trappers 
down  from  the  Broken  Horns  who  communed 
with  "  ha'ants  "  in  every  hollow  stump  and  held 
long  arguments  with  invisible  creatures  of  the 
forests.  Perhaps  she  would  soon  be  making 
friends  with  the  Unseen  if  she  remained  longer 
alone;  when  Hilma  caught  herself  talking  her 
thoughts  aloud  a  cold  terror  of  premonition 
swept  over  her. 

The  girl  reviewed  every  possible  course  open 
to  her.  To  return  to  Two  Moons?  Then  she 
would  be  absolutely  in  the  hollow  of  Original 
Bill's  hand.  Some  caprice  of  his  had  freed  her 
when  he  caught  her  escaping  from  jail;  another 
caprice  might  just  as  easily  lodge  her  behind 
bars.  Moreover,  Hilma  feared  she  might  not 
be  able  to  hold  herself  in  hand  in  the  event  of 
another  encounter  with  the  man.  To  go  to 
the  Spout  ?  Even  if  Zang  Whistler  were  there 
—  and  of  a  surety  he  was  still  in  the  care  of  that 
sheriff  with  the  flaming  beard — the  girl  could 
not  bring  herself  to  a  surrender  of  convenience ; 
only  her  pledged  word  pointed  to  Zang  as  an 
accepted  master  of  her  destinies. 

But  one  course  remained:  She  would  go  to 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      285 

Woolly  Annie  over  on  Poison  Spider  —  her 
father  had  said  the  big  shepherdess  was  square 
—  she  would  go  to  her,  ask  her  to  outfit  the 
sheep  wagons  that  had  been  the  property  of 
Old  Man  Ring  and  permit  Hilma  Ring  to 
throw  in  her  lot  with  the  sheep  queen's.  Did 
she  not  have  sheep  on  Woolly  Annie's  range? 
The  sheep  books  she  had  carried  away  from  the 
cabin  and  somewhere  lost  proved  that  fact. 
Woolly  Annie  surely  would  not  demand  proof 
of  possession.  Stronger  than  all  practical  de- 
mands of  the  hour,  however,  was  the  girl's 
poignant  agony  of  lonesomeness  crying  to  be 
abated. 

So  on  this  morning  of  golden  glory  when  the 
Spout  first  heard  the  clatter  of  rifles  and  the 
three  who  had  descended  the  Ladder  found 
themselves  suddenly  trapped,  Hilma  Ring  hur- 
ried her  breakfast  and  gathered  together  a 
small  bundle  of  clothes  in  preparation  for  the 
long  ride  cross  country  to  the  domain  of  the 
sheep  queen.  She  went  out  to  the  corral  to 
saddle  the  somnolent  Christian. 

Hilma  had  the  saddle  on  the  horse  and  was 
just  about  to  mount  to  ride  him  to  the  cabin 
door  when  her  eye  fell  upon  three  swiftly  mov- 
ing dots  against  the  brown  flank  of  a  long  hill 


286      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

off  to  the  west.  They  were  horsemen  coming 
at  full  tilt  toward  the  cabin.  Hardly  had  she 
caught  sight  of  this  prodigy  when  the  three 
dropped  out  of  sight  behind  a  swale  and  over 
the  crest  of  the  divide  behind  them  swept  more 
dots.  Hilma  counted  ten.  More  horsemen, 
and  they  were  burning  the  wind.  In  a  minute 
they,  too,  were  hidden  by  the  rise  of  a  nearer 
swell  in  the  land. 

She  sat  on  Christian's  back  puzzling  an  ex- 
planation for  this  sudden  appearance  of  life 
and  action  in  the  unpeopled  spaces.  Then, 
topping  the  crest  of  a  long  slope  leading  down 
to  her  own  cabin,  appeared  the  three  horsemen 
in  advance.  Two  of  them  were  riding  bent  low 
over  their  saddles;  a  third,  a  little  back  of 
abreast,  sat  stiffly  upright  and  rode  somewhat 
clumsily.  Hilma  hastily  dismounted,  sensing 
that  somehow  she  was  to  be  involved  in  this  hur- 
ricane of  action.  Just  as  the  ten  following 
horsemen  appeared  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  and 
a  jet  of  white  smoke  puffed  out  before  one  of 
them,  the  three  in  advance  thundered  straight 
into  the  dooryard. 

Two  threw  themselves  to  the  ground  and 
raced  to  the  side  of  the  third.  Him  they 
dragged  without  gentleness  from  his  saddle. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      287 

Even  as  the  man  fought  futilely  and  with  hands 
held  stiffly  before  him,  Hilma  recognized  the 
features  under  the  flapping  hat  brim.  It  was 
Zang  Whistler.     His  hands  were  manacled. 

With  a  gasp  she  leaped  inside  the  door  and 
her  hands  seized  the  heavy  beamed  barrier  of 
slabs  to  slam  it  in  the  faces  of  the  three.  But 
before  she  could  achieve  her  purpose  Whistler 
was  catapulted  through  the  doorway.  The 
man  who  propelled  him  with  viselike  grip,  in 
shirt  and  trousers,  was  Original  Bill.  The 
third  man,  unknown  to  Hilma,  leaped  to  the 
saddles  and  withdrew  from  their  scabbards  two 
short  rifles;  then  he,  too,  was  shouldering  his 
way  into  the  cabin. 

Bang!  went  the  door;  the  heavy  beam  was 
pushed  through  the  staples.  That  instant  a 
white  splinter  of  wood  leaped  inward  from  the 
near  side  of  the  door  and  a  tiny  bit  of  blue  sky 
peeked  like  an  inquisitive  eye  into  the  cabin. 

"  Take  that  front  window  there,  Timber- 
line!"  Original  shouted,  "an'  hold  'em  off 
while  I  fix  up  Zang  here." 

Beyond  the  first  flash  of  recognition  that  had 
passed  between  the  range  inspector  and  the  girl 
as  he  was  rushing  the  outlaw  through  the  door, 
Original  had  completely  ignored  her  presence 


288      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

during  the  tumultuous  seconds  after  his  inva- 
sion of  the  cabin.  Now  he  had  wrestled  Zang 
to  the  floor  on  the  far  side  of  the  interior  next 
to  the  fireplace,  and  with  incredible  swiftness 
he  was  throwing  about  the  outlaw's  threshing 
legs  binding  nooses  of  a  hair  rope  he  had  slung 
over  his  arm  the  instant  of  his  leap  from  the 
saddle. 

The  close  confines  of  the  log-walled  room 
roared  with  the  discharge  of  a  rifle.  The  gaunt 
figure  of  Timberline  Todd,  crouching  at  a  cor- 
ner of  one  of  the  windows  flanking  the  door  was 
enveloped  with  wreathing  smoke;  his  right  el- 
bow jerked  pistonlike  as  he  threw  a  fresh  shell 
into  the  chamber  of  his  muley.  Faintly  came 
the  sound  of  shots  without. 

Original,  slipping  the  final  knot  that  bound 
his  captor's  legs,  heard  a  metallic  click  behind 
him.  He  threw  a  hasty  glance  over  his  shoul- 
der. Hilma,  standing  a  few  feet  behind  him, 
was  just  raising  a  rifle  to  her  shoulder;  its  oc- 
tagonal snout  bore  down  on  him.  He  caught  a 
flash  of  bared  teeth  and  the  cold  eyes  of  mur- 
der laid  against  the  rifle  stock. 

The  man  acted  quicker  than  light.  He 
threw  himself  on  his  curved  back,  driving  one 
booted  foot  at  the  rifle  muzzle.     His  heel  struck 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      289 

the  barrel  the  instant  death  jetted  from  it;  a 
bullet  flattened  against  the  stones  of  the  fire- 
place and  dropped  within  two  inches  of  Zang 
Whistler's  head. 

Original  was  on  his  feet  like  a  cat.  As  Hil- 
ma's  right  hand  swung  the  ejector  he  closed 
with  her.  His  grip  was  upon  the  rifle,  one 
hand  below  hers  on  the  barrel,  the  other  tight- 
ened like  a  steel  clamp  across  her  hand  at  the 
breech. 

They  battled.  It  was  crude,  primitive  com- 
bat. Gone  were  restricting  conventions  laid 
by  the  ages  against  man  who  fights  with 
woman.  Sped  were  all  the  subtleties  of  sex  and 
the  niceties  of  chivalry.  The  man,  with  en- 
emies outside  the  door  and  an  enemy  within, 
was  moved  by  the  single  impulse  of  self-pres- 
ervation. He  fought  to  live.  The  woman  was 
driven  by  hate,  —  by  a  consuming  passion  to 
wipe  out  the  wound  to  her  pride  this  man  had 
given  with  his  kiss  in  the  wilderness.  No 
thought  of  loyalty  for  Whistler,  her  lover, 
prompted  Hilma;  she  had  no  idea  of  securing 
his  freedom  by  attacking  his  enemies. 

Hand  grip  to  hand  grip,  this  was  an  issue 
between  Original  Bill  and  Hilma  Ring, — 
alone. 


290      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

With  a  vicious  twist  Original  wrenched  the 
rifle  from  her  hands.  Up  shot  her  right  hand 
before  he  could  imprison  it  and  four  red  slashes 
leaped  from  eyes  to  chin  across  the  man's  face. 

He  laughed,  but  there  was  no  humor  in  that 
laugh.  Now  he  had  an  arm  about  her  waist, 
and  her  right  hand  was  gripped  in  the  vise  of 
his  fingers.  She  felt  his  muscles  straining 
against  hers.  His  breath  was  hot  upon  her 
cheek.  Slowly,  slowly  her  right  arm  was  be- 
ing brought  up  behind  her  back. 

Hilma  writhed  and  her  left  hand,  clenched, 
beat  at  his  eyes,  pounded  on  his  cheek.  Some- 
thing deeper  and  more  consuming  than  the 
rage  in  her  whipped  her  body  to  exert  almost 
demoniac  strength.  For  through  the  mist  of 
battle  her  brain  read  clearly  that  in  the  issue 
she  herself  had  forced  —  in  the  test  for  which 
she  alone  was  responsible  • —  this  man  was  in- 
exorably imposing  his  mastery  over  her.  He 
was  breaking  her;  all  the  rebellious  and  self- 
centered  creature  called  Hilma  Ring  was  being 
crushed  in  the  press  of  crude  force. 

Now  burning  pains  began  to  shoot  up  the 
tortured  right  arm.  It  seemed  packed  in  burn- 
ing coals.  Surely  in  another  instant  bones 
would  break. 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      291 

Hilma  screamed,  and  her  nails  drove  at  Orig- 
inal's face.  He  quickly  buried  his  unprotected 
eyes  against  her  shoulder  so  that  she  could  not 
reach  them.  Once  more  the  girl  heard  a  low 
laugh. 

Then  she  vented  a  tremulous  sob  and  pitched 
forward  in  weakness.  A  cloud  rushed  down 
and  enveloped  her.  She  felt  herself  dropping 
into  nothingness. 

Original  let  the  girl's  body  slide  to  the  floor. 
Then  with  strips  from  a  dish  towel  he  securely 
bound  her  hands  behind  her  and  tied  her  feet 
together.  He  carried  her  to  one  of  the  bunk 
beds,  laid  her  therein,  then  swiftly  made  a  bar- 
ricade before  her  of  the  table  set  on  edge,  the 
trunk  and  a  bundle  of  blankets.  A  bullet  zip- 
ping through  the  walls  or  windows  would  be 
stopped  by  these  obstructions. 

Original's  combat  with  the  girl  had  occupied 
hardly  a  minute  and  had  been  observed  only  by 
the  helpless  Zang,  lying  with  his  back  propped 
against  the  fireplace.  At  its  swift  conclusion 
Original  seized  his  own  rifle  and  took  his  place 
at  a  window  covering  the  corral  and  wagon  shed 
some  thirty  yards  from  the  house  and  in  the 
direction  of  the  creek.  Timberline,  at  his  post, 
had  been  steadily  firing  whenever  a  mark  pre- 


292      Trails   to    Two    Moons 

sented  itself ;  the  pile  of  brass  shells  at  his  feet 
was  momentarily  growing. 

The  stand  of  these  two,  Original  and  Tim- 
berline,  in  Hilma's  cabin  was,  in  truth,  the  re- 
course of  desperation  following  an  escape  more 
than  miraculous  from  the  trap  in  the  Spout. 
There  while  the  attack  of  Andy  Dorson's  blun- 
dering cow-punchers  was  in  full  swing  —  and 
Original  could  only  hope  for  an  outcome  favor- 
able to  the  invaders  —  he  had  determined  upon 
the  bold  stroke  of  making  a  break  for  freedom 
out  of  the  south  pass.  With  Zang's  burly 
bodyguard  left  behind,  but  clinging  desperately 
to  the  prisoner  he  had  risked  his  life  to  get, 
Original  and  his  two  companions  had  pushed 
down  the  road  to  Tisdale's.  There  had  been  a 
running  fight  with  the  crowd  of  horsemen  that 
had  passed  their  retreat;  Hank  Rogers  had 
been  shot  out  of  his  saddle;  the  outlaws  had 
been  beaten  back.  But,  with  Zang  transferred 
to  Rogers'  horse  and  flight  into  the  open  coun- 
try begun,  the  outlaws  had  been  quick  to  rally 
for  pursuit.  Hilma's  cabin  Original  had  seized 
as  a  citadel  fortuitously  thrown  his  way  after 
a  heart-breaking  pursuit  across  country. 

Two  against  ten;  the  odds  were  heavy. 
Both  men  well  realized  the  chance  of  relief  by 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      293 

their  companions  of  the  Spout  expedition  was 
one  in  a  thousand.  But  the  gaunt  old  range 
man  and  the  little  inspector  each  possessed  to 
the  full  that  calm  fatalism  that  was  the  endow- 
ment of  men  of  their  clan,  inured  to  the  chances 
of  the  Big  Country. 

They  were  quick  to  appreciate  that  certain 
elements  played  with  them.  The  cabin  looked 
out  upon  unbroken  prairie  through  two  win- 
dows at  the  front  and  one  at  the  eastern  end; 
its  back  and  western  side  were  without  win- 
dows, but  equally  without  a  second  door  to  be 
rushed.  The  only  possible  cover  offered  the 
attackers  was  that  of  the  corral  and  stable 
whose  open  front  faced  the  cabin. 

It  would  have  been  simple  for  the  Spout 
men  to  slip  up  on  the  blind  side  of  the  cabin  and 
fire  the  roof,  but  such  tactics  were  denied  by  the 
presence  of  their  leader,  a  prisoner,  in  the 
house.  A  rush  could  only  be  made  across  the 
flat  dooryard  swept  by  the  fire  from  two  win- 
dows. 

As  long  as  there  was  only  one  answering  rifle 
from  the  cabin  the  outlaws  risked  circling  their 
horses,  Indian  fashion,  at  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  log  fort  and  taking  flying  shots 
at  the  window  whence  Timberline's  rifle  spoke. 


294      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

But  when  the  smoke  of  shots  began  to  jet  from 
the  second  window  to  the  front  and  one  horse 
went  down  in  a  kicking  sprawl,  the  attackers 
made  a  rush  for  the  cover  of  the  corral  and  shed. 
Sure  of  their  ultimate  triumph,  they  settled 
down  to  siege  tactics.  They  could  well  afford 
to  wait  until  dark;  then  the  house  would  be 
rushed. 

It  was  a  deadly  game  played  there  in  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  prairie.  Timberline  at  his 
window,  Original  on  his  belly  behind  a  hole  he 
had  dug  out  with  his  knife  through  the  clay 
chinking  between  the  logs,  strained  their  eyes 
at  the  distant  cracks  between  the  boards  of  the 
shed.  Whenever  by  so  much  as  an  inch  some- 
thing cut  the  thin  strip  of  blue  sky  showing 
through,  the  rifle  of  one  or  the  other  probed  that 
substance  with  a  bullet.  Instantly  from  the 
shed  wall  answering  puffs  of  smoke  sprouted, 
and  the  thud  of  a  bullet  sounded  against  the 
heavy  logs.  All  the  windows  were  long  since 
splintered ;  glinting  shards  of  glass  lay  thickly 
over  the  cabin  floor.  Now  and  again  there 
would  be  a  smart  "  ping  "  of  a  missile  that  had 
ripped  through  window  frame  or  between  logs 
and  found  lodgment  within  the  cabin.  Once 
there  was  a  clear  bell  stroke;  the  painted  like- 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      295 

ness  of  the  Minnesota  State  capitol  across  the 
glass  of  the  clock's  pendulum  case  dissolved 
into  dust. 

Zang  Whistler,  bound  and  manacled,  sat 
propped  against  the  fireplace  stones,  silent. 
A  saturnine  smile  seemed  fixed  on  his  features. 
From  the  bunk  behind  the  barricade  where 
Hilma  lay  there  was  not  a  sound. 

Original  found  his  cartridges  running  low. 
Remembering  the  rifle  he  had  wrested  from  the 
girl,  he  started  on  hands  and  knees  on  a  search 
for  ammunition  to  supply  that  weapon.  Just 
as  he  was  lifting  himself  cautiously  toward  a 
shelf  where  he  had  spied  some  paper  cartridge 
boxes  he  heard  a  sharp  metallic  snap  and,  turn- 
ing his  head,  he  saw  a  round  hole  through  the 
side  of  the  blue  zinc  trunk  he  had  upended  to 
protect  the  girl. 

He  stepped  quickly  to  the  bunk  where  she 
lay  and  peered  over  the  top  of  the  pile  of  stuff 
there.  In  the  shadow  was  the  girl's  face 
turned  toward  his.  Her  hair,  tumbled  in  the 
fight,  lay  like  a  glory  all  round  her  head.  But 
the  eyes  meeting  his  did  not  flash  the  defiance 
he  expected.  Instead  there  was  something  in 
their  blue-black  depths  wholly  startling  to  the 
man,  —  something  of  dawning  wonder  and  a 


296      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

groping  for  light  in  strange  environs  of  the 
spirit. 

"  Are  you  hurt?  "  Original  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered  hardly  above  a  breath. 

A  long  sigh  sounded  behind  him.  Original 
whirled  in  time  to  see  the  gaunt  tower  of  bone 
that  was  Timberline  Todd  slowly  buckle  and 
come  slipping  down  by  the  window  frame. 
His  head  as  it  fell  back  showed  a  round  red 
spot  just  over  the  eyes.  One  gnarled  hand 
fluttered  for  an  instant  as  it  touched  the  floor. 
It  was  as  if  Timberline  were  waving  good-by. 

"  Old  friend  —  old  friend,"  Original  mut- 
tered chokingly  as  he  placed  Timberline's  bat- 
tered hat  over  his  face.  Then  with  Hilma's 
rifle  and  three  full  boxes  of  cartridges  he  took 
his  place  at  the  chink  in  the  logs  close  to  the 
floor.  The  slow  siege  went  on,  odds  ten  to 
one. 

Hilma,  lying  on  her  bound  hands  in  the  dark 
bunk,  heard  the  slow,  steady  pound  of  Orig- 
inal's rifle  as  it  spoke  defiance  through  the 
dreary  hours.  Though  she  could  not  see  the 
sprawling  figure  of  the  cabin's  lone  defender 
because  of  the  barricade  he  had  piled  to  protect 
her,  her  mind  visualized  him  a  giant  speaking 
with    thunderous   voice,  —  a   giant    beset    by 


Trails   to    Two    Moons      297 

jackals  and  fighting  desperately  for  life  against 
great  odds. 

"He  is  force!  He  is  power!"  a  voice 
seemed  to  whisper  to  her,  a  strange  voice  never 
before  heard  by  her  inner  ear  of  the  soul.  "If 
he  fights  this  way  to  save  himself,  how  would  he 
battle  to  protect  one  beloved  by  him!  " 

Came  a  moment  when  the  girl  realized  the 
pulse  beat  of  Original's  rifle  was  stilled;  she 
could  not  recall  how  long  had  been  the  interval 
of  complete  silence  in  the  cabin.  Cold  terror 
struck  at  her  heart.  Painfully  she  worked  her- 
self to  an  elbow,  thence  to  a  sitting  position 
which  brought  her  eyes  over  the  top  of  the  bar- 
ricade. 

She  saw  Zang  sitting,  back  against  the  fire- 
place, with  his  head  turned  to  bring  his  fixed 
gaze  on  something  beyond.  Following  this 
gaze,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  sprawling  figure 
against  the  wall. 

It  was  the  man  who  had  mastered  her,  muscle 
against  muscle.  He  lay  like  one  asleep,  head 
across  the  tip  of  the  rifle  and  pillowed  on  an 
arm.  From  beneath  his  body  a  slow  black 
stream  pushed  out  across  the  cabin  floor. 

Then  the  cabin  door  was  cautiously  thrust 
half  open.     A  revolver's  wicked  snout  slowly 


298      Trails  to  Two  Moons 

peeked  in;  a  man's  head  followed,  then  his 
body. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  he  called  back  through  the 
door,  "  we  got  the  cuss  at  last." 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

Eight  ruffians  pushed  into  the  cabin ;  one  lay 
wounded  behind  the  shed  and  one  was  dead. 
Zang  they  hailed  with  heavy  oaths  until  a  snarl- 
ing command  from  him  bade  them  respect  the 
presence  of  the  girl,  unguessed  by  the  outlaws 
and  received  as  a  distinct  sauce  to  the  situation. 
One  man  pawed  through  Original  Bill's  pock- 
ets and  found  the  key  to  the  handcuffs ;  he  re- 
leased his  leader.  Another  cut  free  the  wrap- 
pings of  cloth  about  Hilma's  hands  and  feet. 
He  roughly  helped  her  to  rise  from  the  bunk. 

A  grim  arid  ugly  place  was  that  single  room, 
still  reeking  with  the  fumes  of  battle;  all  the 
hideous  detritus  of  violence  lay  scattered  there. 
High-booted  men  with  rifles  stumped  clumsily 
about  the  floor,  marking  with  pointing  fingers 
the  scars  and  chips  of  bullets'  work;  their  heels 
crunched  shards  of  glass  with  every  step. 
Empty  brass  shells  slithered  over  the  floor  be- 


300      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

fore  every  shuffling  foot.  Bedding,  trunk  and 
table  that  had  been  a  barricade  were  kicked 
into  an  ungainly  heap. 

None  paid  attention  by  so  much  as  a  passing 
glance  at  the  two  sprawled  bodies  by  the  far 
wall. 

Zang,  freed,  made  a  tentative  step  toward 
the  girl.  But,  unseeing,  she  passed  through 
the  crowd  of  men  and  came  slowly  to  the  place 
where  Original  Bill  lay,  head  across  the  rifle. 
As  one  walking  in  hypnosis  Hilma  moved,  and 
dully  she  looked  down  at  the  black  head  pil- 
lowed on  the  crooked  arm.  A  full  minute  she 
stood  thus,  bereft  of  impulse,  seeming  numbed 
against  all  impression  from  the  trash  of  bleak 
tragedy  about  her. 

Then  husks  that  had  stifled  and  sealed 
against  every  impulse  save  a  selfish  one  these 
many  years  of  her  soul's  hermit  isolation  dis- 
solved in  a  great  sob,  and  the  heart  of  Hilma 
Ring  winged  free. 

She  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  man  who  had 
conquered  her  and  took  his  head  in  her  arms. 
She  whispered  softly:  "  My  man  —  my  man!  " 
Her  voice  crooned  like  the  voice  of  a  mother  in 
cradle  song.  Her  free  hand  fluttered  about 
the  white  forehead,  tucking  back  a  black  raven 


Trails  to  Two  Moons      301 

wing  of  hair  that  had  fallen  across  the  closed 
eyes,  touching  with  infinite  tenderness  four 
angry  marks  her  nails  had  left  across  the  cheek 
such  a  short  time  before. 

"  My  man  —  my  man!  "  It  was  a  cry  now 
—  a  cry  to  call  him  back  to  her  love. 

The  nearest  outlaw  turned  and  looked  down 
in  amazement.  He  grinned  and  cast  a  cov- 
ert glance  at  Zang  Whistler  even  as  he  nudged 
his  companion,  who  was  snorting  in  a  chuckle. 
Zang  pushed  his  way  through  his  men  and  came 
to  where  Hilma  knelt.  A  heavy  scowl 
smudged  his  features  at  what  he  saw;  then 
when  recollection  of  the  fight  between  Hilma 
and  Original  of  which  he  had  been  a  helpless 
witness,  flooded  on  him  the  scowl  was  replaced 
by  blank  astonishment.  He  bent  and  touched 
the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  Hilma  —  what  —  what " 


"Oh,  he  still  lives!  I  can  feel  his  heart 
beat."  The  girl's  hand  had  slipped  inside 
Original's  shirt.  She  withdrew  it  and  looked 
aghast  at  what  marked  the  white  fingers. 
"Some  water!  "  she  commanded. 

Zang,  still  grappling  with  questions  he  could 
not  answer,  brought  water  in  a  basin.  Hilma 
already  had  torn  strips  from  her  dress.     See- 


302      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

ing  her  struggling  to  pull  the  unconscious 
man's  shirt  away  from  the  wound  below  the 
heart,  Zang  got  out  his  knife  and  cut  away  the 
cloth  from  shoulder  to  waist.  The  man's  great 
torso  was  exposed ;  an  ugly  looking  blackened 
hole  bored  through  the  white  flesh  on  the  left 
side.  Hilma  dipped  cloths  in  water  and  began 
to  bathe  the  wound.  All  the  while  she  kept 
whispering  in  mother  tones  to  the  ears  that 
could  not  hear,  —  disjointed,  passionate  heart 
calls  they  were.  Whistler  was  a  thousand  miles 
out  of  the  scene. 

The  big  outlaw  realized  this  after  a  few  mo- 
ments. From  somewhere  out  of  the  deeps  of 
his  heart  a  curious  sense  of  delicacy  rose  up  to 
check  the  questions  he  would  ask.  He  tiptoed 
back  and  pointed  to  the  form  of  Timberline 
Todd  where  it  lay  beneath  the  window.  Four 
of  his  men  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  out  of  the 
cabin. 

An  hour  Zang  waited  while  men  were  busy 
with  a  shovel  up  on  the  flower-blown  knoll 
where  the  clay  on  another  grave,  that  of  Old 
Man  Ring,  still  was  fresh.  There  they  buried 
Timberline  Todd,  a  fighter  who  had  come  to  his 
rest  as  he  would.  Then,  the  sun  being  low  and 
Whistler  having  grave  doubts  as  to  how  he 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      303 

would  find  the  affairs  back  in  the  Spout,  he  felt 
the  urgency  of  action.  He  reentered  the 
cabin. 

Hilma,  who  was  sitting  with  Original's  head 
in  her  lap,  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  the  foot- 
fall. 

"  Help  me  carry  him  to  the  bunk,"  she  said. 
Zang  put  his  hands  under  the  limp  shoulders, 
Hilma  lifted  at  the  knees  and  they  laid  him  on 
the  blankets.  Then  the  girl  turned  to  face 
Whistler. 

1  You  '11  get  word  to  Woolly  Annie  for  me," 
she  said  softly.  "  Tell  her  what 's  happened 
—  that  I  'm  alone.  Ask  her  to  come  and  bring 
some  food  and  medicines,  and  have  somebody 
ride  to  Two  Moons  for  a  doctor." 

"  But,  Hilma,  you  're  not  —  you  're  not 
goin'  to  stay  here  all  alone  with  a  man  who  may 
—die?  " 

"  He  shan't  die,  and  this  is  my  place  —  by 
his  side  to  nurse  him  back  to  strength."  Then 
the  girl  saw  the  deep  pucker  of  utter  f  orlorn- 
ness  and  blasted  hope  between  the  other's  eyes ; 
for  the  first  time  realization  came  to  her  of 
Zang's  right  to  know  what  was  his  part  in  this 
swift  shifting  of  the  balances.  She  came  to 
him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 


304      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

"  I  love  this  man,  Zang  —  love  him  more 
than  I  know,  and  I  must  fight  for  his  life  be- 
cause it  belongs  to  me.  Yes,  yes,"  she  an- 
swered the  question  that  was  rounding  his  lips, 
"  I  know  you  saw  me  fight  him  —  saw  him  try 
to  break  my  arm.  That 's  when  I  began  to 
love  him,  Zang.  I  can't  explain  it.  Maybe 
if  you  had  ever  fought  me  —  wrestled  with  me, 
Zang  —  tried  to  break  my  arm  —  maybe  then 
I  would  have  loved  you.     I " 

"  Did  Original  steal  you  from  the  jail  and 
have  you  hid  out?  "  the  big  fellow  demanded 
with  a  sudden  access  of  jealousy.  Hilma's 
eyes  widened. 

"Steal  me  —  no!  I  ran  away  from  the 
sheriff's  house  because  I  thought  I  was  ar- 
rested ;  then  I  stole  Original's  horse  and  started 
for  home.  He  found  me  when  I  was  lost  and 
—  and  put  me  on  the  right  road  and  left  me. 
All  the  time  you  were  in  jail." 

Zang  slowly  shook  his  head  and  smiled 
wanly. 

"  It  5s  a  mix-up,  Hilma,  —  a  whale  of  a  mix- 
up.  But  it  seems  to  be  comin'  out  right  for 
you,  leastways.  If  I  Ve  lost  you,  girl,  reckon 
it 's  because  I  did  n't  savvy  how  to  rope  an' 
brand  a  wild  one  like  you.     Kin  I " 


Trails   to   Two   Moons      305 

She  gave  him  her  lips,  simply,  and  the  man 
went  out  into  the  sunset. 

That  night  was  the  first  Hilma  had  ever 
known  in  her  years  in  the  Big  Country  when 
the  great  dark  did  not  come  to  sit  down  with 
her.  She  was  alone,  yes,  but  with  a  deep  well- 
spring  of  love  to  flood  her  heart  with  happiness 
and  make  each  ministering  touch  of  her  fingers 
a  healing  balm. 

Morning  brought  Woolly  Annie  with  her 
booming  voice  hailing  from  afar:  "  Here  comes 
the  nurse,  an'  the  preacher  which  you  need 
more  '11  be  trailin'  'long  directly." 

During  two  weeks  Original  Bill  battled  to 
free  himself  from  a  land  of  shadows.  And  in 
those  two  weeks  history  was  made  in  the  Big 
Country.  The  army  of  the  Invasion  recruited 
among  the  wild  desert  towns  of  the  Southwest 
moved  up  from  the  south,  launched  itself  into 
the  range  lands,  smirched  the  smiling  country 
with  some  cold  murders  and  even  prepared  to 
lunge  at  Two  Moons.  But  Uncle  Alf,  fiery 
evangel  of  his  army  of  righteousness,  and  the 
more  practical  Red  Agnew  armed  Two  Moons 
and  sent  an  avenging  force  out  to  meet  the 
hired  terrorizers.     The  fight  and  siege  at  T  A 


306      Trails  to   Two   Moons 

Ranch,  of  which  the  oldsters  in  Two  Moons  still 
spin  yarns,  smashed  the  invaders  and  broke  the 
back  of  the  cattle  clan.  For  all  time  thereafter 
the  Big  Country  became  everyman's  land  and 
not  the  fief  of  the  cattle  barony. 

As  for  Zang  Whistler,  when  he  rode  back  to 
the  Spout  that  day  from  Hilma's  cabin  it  was 
the  beginning  of  a  ride  into  exile.  For  Orig- 
inal Bill's  expedition  had,  in  truth,  cleaned  up 
the  Spout  even  without  its  little  general.  Zang 
himself  narrowly  escaped  the  capture  that  fell 
to  the  lot  of  most  of  the  outlaws  who  had  be- 
leaguered Original  in  the  cabin  on  Teapot. 
Zang  drifted  to  the  Southwest,  where  there  yet 
remained  adventure  for  the  untamed. 

It  was  the  first  day  Original  had  been  per- 
mitted by  the  domineering  Woolly  Annie  to 
crawl  from  his  bunk  to  the  door.  He  sat  there  in 
the  flooding  sunshine,  gazing  off  to  the  purple 
ramparts  of  the  Broken  Horns.  Hilma  sat  on 
the  step  below  him.  Her  golden  head,  color  of 
dandelions  in  dew,  was  laid  on  his  knee.  One 
of  his  hands  strayed  through  the  fugitive  ten- 
drils that  dropped  over  her  ears. 

A  great  content  was  theirs.  They  were  one 
with  the  bluebonnets  that  flecked  the  sweep  of 
the   divides   with  royal  color;   one  with  the 


Trails   to  Two   Moons      307 

mourning  dove  whose  love  cry  sounded  from 
the  alders  fringing  Teapot.  They  were  all 
children  of  the  Big  Country. 

Away  off  to  the  north  a  dot  topped  a 
divide  and  disappeared ;  in  a  minute  it  bobbed 
over  the  crest  of  a  nearer  wave  of  land,  com- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  cabin.  Original's 
eye  followed  the  vagrant  moving  thing  curi- 
ously. 

"  That  might  be  the  doc,  though  he  said  he 
was  n't  comin'  back  here  for  a  week,"  he  mused. 

"  No,"  Hilma  corrected  softly.  "  I  think  I 
know  who  it  is.     It 's  Uncle  Alf." 

"Sho!"  exclaimed  Original  in  mock  sur- 
prise. "  How  come  your  eyes  are  better  than 
mine?  " 

"  They  're  not,"  the  girl  laughed.  "  It 's  the 
heart  tells  me,  boy.  And  besides,  I  told  the 
doc  to  send  Uncle  Alf  out  here  because  —  be- 
cause   " 

Original's  hand,  suddenly  tucked  beneath  her 
chin,  tipped  up  her  face  so  that  her  blue  eyes, 
deep  and  slumberous  with  the  love  in  her,  must 
meet  his. 

"  LiT  girl,  once  you  stole  my  hoss  —  my 
fool  liT  hayburner  Tige  —  an'  I  let  you  go. 
But  what  am  I  goin'  to  do  when  you  figger  to 


308      Trails   to   Two   Moons 

steal  me  —  with  the  preacher  burnin'  the  wind 
to  put  the  brand  on  to  me?  Answer  me ;  what 
chance  have  I  got?  " 

"  A  ten  to  one  fighting  chance,  Original  boy 
—  the  chance  you  always  take." 


Love  story,  adventure  story,  nature  story  —  all  three  qualities  combine 

in  this  tale  of  modern  man  and  woman  arrayed 

against  the  forces  of  age-old  savagery 


THE  VOICE  OF 
THE  PACK 


By  EDISON  MARSHALL 

With  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton 
12mo.         Cloth.         305  pages 


"  'The  Voice  of  the  Pack'  is  clean,  fine,  raw,  bold,  primitive; 
and  has  a  wonderfully  haunting  quality  in  the  repeated  wolf- 
note" — Zane  Grey. 

"Taken  all  around  'The  Voice  of  the  Pack'  is  the  best  of  the 
stories  about  wild  life  that  has  come  out  in  many,  many  moons." 

—  The  Chicago  Daily  News, 

"As  a  story  that  mingles  Adventure,  Nature  Study  and  Ro- 
mance, 'The  Voice  of  the  Pack*  is  undeniably  of  the  front  rank. 
Mr.  Marshall  knows  the  wild  places  and  the  ways  of  the  wild 
creatures  that  range  them  —  and  he  knows  how  to  write.  The 
study  of  Dan  Failing's  development  against  a  background  of 
the  wild  life  of  the  mountains,  is  an  exceedingly  clever  piece  of 
literary  work."  —  The  Boston  Herald. 

"An  unusually  good  tale  of  the  West,  evidently  written  by  a 
man  who  knows  about  the  habits  of  the  wolf-packs  and  cougars." 

—  The  New  York  Times. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  Publishers 

34  Beacon  Street,  Boston 


A  lively  story  of  ranch-life  on  the  Texas  plains,  in  which  men 
settle  their  accounts  on  sight  with  "six-guns" 


MIDNIGHT 
OF  THE  RANGES 


By  GEORGE  GILBERT 

With  frontispiece  by  George   Gage 
12mo.      Cloth.     302  Pages 


It  was  a  lucky  thing  for  Old  Man  Peters  that  Ed 
Beltrane  came  riding  into  Coppered  Jack,  "just 
looking  around' '  for  a  job,  at  the  particular  mo- 
ment he  did. 

All  the  cards  were  stacked  against  Peters,  and  he 
needed  help.  Barnquist,  the  biggest  cattle  prince 
in  the  country  — who  held  the  sheriff  and  the  law 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand  —  had  his  eye  on  the  valu- 
able water  rights  on  Peters'  homestead.  Barn- 
quist's  son  had  his  eye  on  Peters'  daughter,  and 
between  the  two  they  meant  to  dispose  of  the  old 
man  and  help  themselves  to  his  belongings. 

But  they  had  not  counted  on  Beltrane  and  his 
big  stallion  Midnight,  — a  man  of  men  and  a 
stallion  unsurpassed.  So  their  plans  did  not  work 
out  exactly  as  they  had  expected,  with  the  result 
that  Coppered  Jack  quickly  found  itself  the  centre 
of  a  livery  drama  of  Western  life,  in  which  bullets 
flew  and  men  settled  their  accounts  on  sight  with 
"six-guns,"  without  waiting  for  discussion. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  Publishers 
34  Beacon  Street,  Boston 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

n/hipr'folJ 

LD  21-100m-2,'55                                 TT   . General  Library 
(B139s22)476                                         Universuy^Califorma 

I  U      O  /    I  C-U 


